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BOOKS    BY    SAM    WALTER   FOSS. 


Back  Country  Poems. 

With  12  Full-page  Illustrations.    Cloth  $1.50 

Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows. 

Fully  Illustrated.     Cloth.     Gilt  Top.     Boxed  1.50 

Dreams  in  Homespun. 

Cloth.     Gilt  Top.     Boxed  1.50 

Songs  of  War  and  Peace. 

Cloth.     Gilt  Top.     Boxed         -  -  1.25 


LEE  AND  SHEPARD,   PUBLISHERS, 
BOSTON. 


WHIFFS 


FROM 


WILD     MEADOWS 


BY 


SAM    WALTER    FOSS 
f/ 

AUTHOR  OF  "BACK  COUNTRY  POEMS" 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 

LEE  AND  SHEPARD  PUBLISHERS 
1905 


The  poems  entitled  "Sambo  Washington's  Vindication," 
"Gideon  Gaskins's  Deaths,"  "The  Fate  of  Pious  Dan,"  "The 
Vision  That  Recedes,"  "  A  Modern  Malthusian,"  "The  Song  of 
the  Brook,"  "Fate,"  "The  Battle  in  the  Mist,"  "The  Voy- 
age," and  "My  Sabbaths"  are  used  in  this  volume  through 
the  courtesy  of  the  New  York  Sun.  The  poems  entitled 
"The  Songless  Poet,"  "A  Back-yard  Philosopher,"  "The  Big 
Four  and  the  Little  Man"  are  used  by  the  kind  permission 
of  The  Golden  Rule. 


COPYRIGHT,  1895,  BY  LEE  AND  SHEPARD 


All  rights  reserved 


WHIFFS  FROM  WILD  MEADOWS 


TYPOGRAPHY    BY   C.    J.    PETERS   ti   SON,    BOSTON. 


PRESSWORK    BY    ROCKWELL   &   CHURCHILL. 


TO 

SAXTON  AND  MOLLIE 


M191981 


Ah,  there  are  many  average  men, 

And  all  so  good  and  bad,  like  you, 
And  all  so  bad  and  good,  like  me  j 
And  all  so  false  and  all  so  true, 
So  full  of  joy  and  misery  — 
Should  not  a  poet  now  and  then 
^Take  songs  to  glad  these  average  men  ? 

Look  in  the  hearts  of  average  men,  — 

The  tragedies  of  doom  are  there ; 
And  comedies  of  glad  delight, 

And  hopeless  waitings  of  despair,  -  • 
And  hopes  and  sorrows  infinite  — 
Shall  not  a  poet  now  and  then 
Look  in  the  hearts  of  average  men  ? 

Look  in  the  lives  of  average  men  — 

The  baby  lulled  by  cradle  songs, 
The  hopeful  youth  serenely  brave, 

The  toiler  in  the  foiling  throngs, 
The  coffin  at  the  open  grave  — 
May  not  a  poet  now  and  then 
Reveal  these  lives  of  average  men  ? 


CONTENTS 


Behind  the  Hill 

The  Pound-Keeper 6 

The  Old  Cow 10 

Sambo  Washington's  Vindication 13 

Justin  Bloom  and  Gontoseed 15 

The  Confessions  of  a  Lunkhead 17 

Fixing  the  Old  Thing  Right 20 

He  Worried  About  It 25 

Haytown's  Boom 28 

Land  on  Your  Feet 31 

Erastus  Wren's  Virtue 33 

The  Drummer 36 

The  Ideal  Husband  to  His  Wife 39 

The  Silence  of  Jed  Durkee 42 

Prudence  True's  Crazy  Quilt 46 

The  Deacon's  Bear- Yarn •     •  51 

Gideon  Gaskins's  Deaths 55 

Ben  Burlap's  Barn 5& 

Deserted  Farms 60 

The  Deacon  and  the  Circus 63 

Jed  Johnson's  Advice 66 

Durkee's  Mill 68 

The  Work-Seeker ?o 

Jack  Dawson's  Pilgrimage 74 


viii  Contents 

PAGE 

The  Calf-Path 77 

The  Fly-Away-Bird •     •     •  81 

Truth 84 

New  Year's  at  Hard  Fact  Meadows 87 

The  Fate  of  Pious  Dan 91 

A  Mislaid  Continent 94 

Fate's  Frustrated  Joke 97 

When  We  Worked  Our  Tax  Out 100 

The  Milkman's  Team        IO2 

The  Ox-Team 106 

The  Prisoner 108 

The  Hill  Above  the  Town no 

The  Home  in  the  Valley 114 

Work  for  Small  Men 116 

The  Buster 118 

Deacon   Pettigrew's  Unfortunate  Prayer 122 

Is  Little  Bob  Tucked  In? 126 

The  Good  Old  Times 129 

The  Vision  That  Recedes 131 

Uncle  Jed's  Journey 134 

The  Origin  of  Sin 136 

The  Soul's  Spring  Cleaning 138 

The  Young  Musician •  .     .  140 

Uncle  Seth  on  Kings 143 

The  Misrepresentation  of  Erastus  Poog 147 

The  Songless  Poet 151 

The  Perfect  Man,  But— 154 

Two  Calves 159 

The  Book-Agent 160 

The  Hen-Fever  of  Jed  WTatson 162 

Heresy  in  Pokumville 167 

Wearing  His  Dad's  OP   Clo'es 171 


Contents  ix 

PAGE 

A  Back-yard   Philosopher 174 

The  Fat  Man 179 

The  Song  of  the  Optimist 182 

The  President's  Baby 185 

The  Song  of  the  Tramp 188 

The  Concord  Fight 190 

The  Man  of  Leisure's  Creed 192 

A  Mighty  Ambition 194 

The  Old  Man's  Boy 197 

The  Rejuvenation  of  Rundown 200 

A  Millionaire  Pauper 205 

The  Candidates  at  the  Fair 209 

Bill,  Tom,  Ned,  Dick,  Pete,  Jim,  and  Me      ....  213 

Wen  Father  Bought  a  Bar'l  er  Flour 216 

When  Cy  Put  on  His  Meetin'  Clo'es 219 

The  Poet's  Sonnet 222 

A  Disreputable  Martyr 224 

Peter's  Picture 228 

The  Graded  Street 230 

A  Modern  Malthusian 234 

The  Song  of  the  Brook 237 

Uncle  Ted  and  Boston 241 

Tom  and  Bill 244 

Fate 249 

The  Battle  in  the   Mist 250 

The  Voyage 251 

My  Sabbaths 252 

The  Coming  American 253 

The  Press 262 

Lines 265 

The  Big  Four  and  the  Little  Man 268 


WHIFFS    FROM   WILD    MEADOWS 


BEHIND   THE  HILL 

MY  boy  was  young;    he  could  not  know 
The  way  earth's  wayward  currents  flow, 
And  so,  in  early  shallows  bound, 
His  mis-manned  shallop  ran  aground. 
He  grew  ashamed  of  his  disgrace, 
He  could  not  look  me  in  the  face ; 
"  For,  mother,  every  man,"  said  he, 
"  Has  scorn,  and  only  scorn,  for  me. 
I  must  go  forth  with  alien  men, 
And  grapple  with  the  world  again ; 
I  cannot  stay  and  face  the  truth 
Among  the  people  of  my  youth. 
Where  men  are  strange,  and  scenes  are  new, 
There  may  be  work  for  me  to  do. 
And,  when  I  have  redeemed  the  past, 
I  will  come  back  to  you  at  last." 
And  so  I  watched  while  my  boy  Will 
Went  down  behind  the  hill. 


Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

He  climbed  the  hill  at  early  morn 
Beneath  whose  shadow  he  was  born  ; 
He  stood  upon  its  highest  place, 
The  sunrise  shining  on  his  face ; 
He  stood  there,  but  too  far  away 
For  me  to  see  his  tears  that  dav. 


My  thoughts,  my  fears,   I  cannot  tell 
When  he  waved  back  his  sad  farewell, 
And  then  passed  on,  and  my  boy  Will 
Went  down  behind  the  hill. 


Went  down  the  hill ;  henceforth  for  me 
One  picture  in  my  memory 
Crowds  every  other  from  its  place,  — 
A  boy  with  sunrise  on  his  face. 


Behind  the  Hill 

His  sunrise-lighted  face  I  see, — 
The  sunset  of  all  joy  to  me ; 
For  when  he  turned  him  from  my  sight 
The  morning  mixed  itself  with  night, 
And  darkness  came  when  my  boy  Will 
Went  down  behind  the  hill. 

The  world  is  wide,  and  he  has  gone 
Into  its  vastness,  on  and  on. 
I  know  not  what  besets  his  path, 
What  hours  of  gloom,  what  days  of  wrath, 
What  terrors  menace  him  afar, 
What  nights  of  storm  without  a  star, 
What  mountains  loom  above  his  way, 
What  oceans  toss  him  night  and  day, 
What  fever  blasts  from  desert  sands, 
What  death-cold  winds  from  frozen  lands, 
What  shafts  of  sleet  or  sun  may  blight 
My  homeless  wanderer  in  his  flight ; 
I  only  know  the  world  is  wide, 
And  he  can  roam  by  land  and  tide. 
'Tis  wide,  ah,  me!  in  every  part, 
But  narrower  than  his  mother's  heart,  — 
A  joyless  heart  since  my  boy  Will 
Went  down  behind  the  hill. 

I  know  he  bravely  fights  with  fate, 
But,  ah,  the  hour  is  growing  late  ! 


Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

I  watch  the  hill  by  day  and  night. 

It  dimly  looms  before  my  sight, 

And  fast  the  twilight  shadows  fall, 

The  night  is  glooming  over  all  ; 

But  in  my  boy  a  faith  is  given 

As  saints  of  old  had  faith  in  heaven. 

I  know  that  he  will  come  again, 

His  praise  on  all  the  lips  of  men  ; 

He  will  come  back  to  me  at  last 

With  deeds  that  shall  redeem  the  past ; 

Nor  desert  plain,  nor  mountain  steep, 

Nor  storm  nor  thunder  on  the  deep, 

Nor  tempest  in  the  east  or  west, 

Shall  hold  him  from  his  mother's  breast. 

And,  though  the  world  grows  blind  and  dumb, 

I  feel,  I  know,  that  he  will  come ; 

And  I  am  waiting  for  him  still, 

And  watch  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

Sometimes  I  think  I  see  him  stand 

And  wave  a  welcome  with  his  hand ; 

But  'tis  a  cloud  upon  the  rim 

Of  sunset  —  and  my  eyes  are  dim  — 

'Tis  but  a  mist  made  by  the  tears 

That  thicken  with  the  growing  years. 

I  watch  while  there  is  light  to  see, 

And  dream  that  he  will  come  to  me  ; 

And  though  'tis  dark  within,  without, 

I  will  not  shame  him  by  a  doubt; 


Behind  the  Hill 

The  all-enfolding  night  draws  near, 
But  he  will  come  —  I  will  not  fear  — 
But,  ah,   'tis  long  since  my  boy  Will 
Went  down  behind  the  hill ! 


M'hijffs  from    M'ild  Meadows 


THE  POUND-KEEPER 


IN  our  district,  years  ago, 
Were  boys  the  great  world  ought  to  know. 
Joe  Bean  could  draw  upon  his  slate 
Fine  pictures  that  we  all  called  great ; 
And  after  school  he  passed  it  round, 
And  then  our  wonder  was  profound. 
"They'll  beat,"  said  Squire  Erastus  Brown, 
"  Most  any  chromo  in  the  town. 
He'll  make  an  artist,  sure  as  fate, 

Of  whom,  some  day,  we'll  all  be  proud." 
But  Joe  moved  to  another  State  — 

And  then  got  lost  in  the  crowd. 

In  the  same  district  Israel  Finn 
Could  play  upon  the  violin  ; 
And  when  he  fiddled,  all  us  boys 
Would  gather  round  to  hear  the  noise. 
Sam  Craig,  who'd  been  to  Boston,  and 
Heard  the  best  fiddlers  in  the  land,  — 
He  said  straight  out  that  he  should  call 
Young  Israel  Finn  the  best  of  all. 
When  he  grew  up  and  moved  away 


The  Found-Keeper  7 

His  genius  was  by  all  allowed ; 
We  said,  "  The  world  will  hear  him  play "  — 
But  he  got  lost  in  the  crowd. 

In  the  same  district  Ezra  Prime 
Was  a  great  hand  to  make  a  rhyme. 
From  him  the  poetry  seemed  to  flow, 
Like  spring  brooks  fed  with  melted  snow ; 
And  Jed  Drew,  who  had  read  a  lots, 
And  knew  the  hymns  of  Isaac  Watts, 
Said  he'd  no  doubt  that  Ezra  Prime 
Would  be  the  poet  of  his  time. 
But  Ezra  left  us,  like  the  rest. 

We  said,  "  His  fame  will  echo  loud 
From  north  to  south,  from  east  to  west,"  — 

But  he  got  lost  in  the  crowd. 

In  the  same  district  Abr'am  Beach 

Most  any  time  could  make  a  speech  ; 

And  our  old  school-committee  man, 

Who  once  had  heard  the  "  Godlike  Dan," 

Said,  "  Webster  made  a  splendid  sound, 

And  threw  his  voice  for  miles  around  ; 

'Twould  fill  a  thousand  acre  lot  — 

But  Abr'am  knocked  him  out  for  thought ! " 

So  he  couldn't  stay  in  such  a  town, 

Where  us  poor  fellows  hoed  and  ploughed. 


Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

He  went  to  seek  a  world  renown  — 
But  he  got  lost  in  the  crowd. 

There  was  a  man  named  Robert  Burns. 
Who  lived  among  the  grass  and  ferns, 
Who  did  hard  work  with  his  right  arm, 
And  raised  good  verses  on  his  farm  ; 
And  while  he  lived  and  farmed  it  there, 
His  poetry  crop  was  pretty  fair. 
Sometimes  we  move  on  faster,  see  ? 
By  simply  staying  where  we  be. 
The  crowd  is  large,  and  men  are  small, 

And  heaped  together,  like  a  cloud,  — 
And  he  is  pretty  middling  tall 

Who  is  not  lost  in  the  crowd. 

There  was  a  man  whose  name  was  Grant, 
Who  grew,  like  an  obscure  plant, 
For  forty  years,   and  blossomed  late, 
Then  burst,  a  full-blown  flower  of  fate. 
This  backwood  teamster  drove  his  team 
Right  through  red  War's  blood-swollen  stream, 
Right  through  the  smoke  and  battle  roar, 
And  hitched  it  at  the  White  House  door. 
He  stayed  at  home,  and  worked  away 

Till  the  time  called,  and  called  him,  loud, 
Then  buckled  on  his  sword  one  day, 

And  found  himself  in  the  crowd. 


The  Pound-Keeper 

But  why  take  Grant  and  Burns  ?   take  me, 

Born  here,  raised  here,  and  here  I  be ; 

But  still  my  fellow-townsmen  found 

No  better  man  to  run  the  Pound. 

And  I  want  you  to  note  it  down, 

I'm  king  of  every  cow  in  town, 

And  all  the  heifers  that  you  see, 

They  stand  in  mortal  awe  of  me. 

I  stayed  right  here,  and  worked  at  home, 

And  all  the  town  of  me  is  proud. 
I  had  no  hankering  to  roam  — 

And  didn't  get  lost  in  the  crowd. 


THE 


I  USED  to  go  a-milking  when  the  shades  of  night 

were  falling, 

And  the  sunset's  benediction   sanctified  the   even- 
ing air, 
When  the  crickets  from  the  thickets  in  their  piping 

strains  were  calling, 

And  the  twilight  peace  was  brooding,  softly  brood- 
ing, everywhere. 
But  the  twilight  peace  I  felt  not,  night's  odorous 

balm  I  smelt  not, 

And  the  black  night  gloomed  about  me  with  a  mel- 
ancholy frown. 

When  I  strained  each  manual  muscle  in  an  agoniz- 
ing tussle, 

But  the  old  cow  wouldn't  "  give  down," 

Ah! 

The  old  cow  wouldn't  "  give  down • '' 
10 


7/L'   Old  One  ii 

O  Brindle  !  most  lactiferous  of  all  the  herd  herbiv- 
orous, 
Nearly  always    non-withholding,  grandly   generous 

wert  thou. 
.     No  cow  grazes  with  such  praises,  for  thy  praises 

were  vociferous, 

For  thou  wert  our  most  beloved  and  our  most  be- 
lauded cow. 
But  sometimes  all  unapplauded,   unbeloved,  unbe- 

lauded, 
Did  our  looks  of  admiration  darken  to   a  gloomy 

frown  ; 

Yes,  our  looks  were  black  and   baleful  when  we 
went  to  get  a  pailful  — 

And  the  old  cow  wouldn't  "  give  down/7 

Ah! 
The  old  cow  wouldn't  "  give  down," 

Milking  since  has  been  my  mission,  and  my  cow  is 

young  ambition, 
And  I've  milked   her    night   and   morning,   milked 

her  early,  milked  her  late  ; 
But  my  butter  (sad  to  utter),  my  sweet  butter  of 

fruition, 
Does   my  most    persistent   churning   often  fail   to 

concentrate. 
Though  my  milking  seat's   adjusted,  still   my  cow 

cannot  be  trusted, 


1 2  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  the  smile  of  fickle  fortune  often  darkens  to  a 

frown, 

When  I  pull  with  tearful  traction,  but  I  get  no  satis- 
faction — 

For  my  old  cow  won't  "give  down," 

Ah! 
My  old  cow  won't  "  give  down." 

And  all  ye  who  read  this  jingle,  who  peruse  this 

lilting  lyric, 
Will    ye    say,    "  His    cow  was    stubborn    when    he 

botched  that  verse,  the  clown  ? " 
You  can  say,  who  read  this  lyric,  if  you  wish  to  be 

satiric, 
"  When  the  author  wrote   that  lyric,  why,  his  cow 

would  not  'give  down.' 
Though  he  milked  with  much  compulsion,  and  he 

strained  with  great  convulsion, 
She  heeded  not  his  prodding,  heeded  not  his  kick 

or  frown  ; 
And  she  showed  the  bard  no  pity  when  he  tried  to 

milk  this  ditty, 

And  his  old  cow  wouldn't  'give  down,' 

Ah! 
His  old  cow  wouldn't  'give  down.'" 


Sambo    Washington's    Vindication  13 


SAMBO  WASHINGTON'S  I/INDICATION. 


HE  stood  before  the  church  committee 

In  calm,  complacent  bravery, 
Though  charged  with  many  heinous  crimes 

And  various  kinds  of  knavery. 
"  Now,   Sambo  Washington,"  they  said, 

"You're  charged  with  great  obliquities, 
With  sundry  crimes  at  various  times, 

And  many  grave  iniquities." 
"  Yes,  sah,"  said  Sambo  Washington, 

"  Ise  done  some  frauds  perdigious  ; 
But,  bress  de  Lawd !  for  ebery  fraud 

Was  pious  an'  religious. 

"  Ise  done  kermitted  var'ous  crimes, 

An'  sins  er  great  variety  ; 
But  ebery  sin  dat  I  has  done 

I  done  for  troof  an'  piety." 
"  But  how  about  John  Gray's  gold  pen  ? 

Also  his  gold  penholder?" 
Then  Sambo  grew  the  size  of  two, 

And  answered  frank  and  bolder, 
"A  pious  feelin'  tuk  me,  Jedge, 

An'  I  could  not  control  it. 


14  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

Wif  dat  pen,  Jedge,   I  signed  de  pledge ; 
Air  dat  was  why  I  stole  it." 

"But  Enoch  Hardy's  watch  and  chain?" 

"  I  stole  um,  Jedge,  fum  Hardy. 
Befo'  dat  date  Ise  allus  late 

To  Sunday-school,  an'  tardy. 
But,  bress  de  Lawd  !  dat  ar  gol'  watch 

Am  bery  akkerit,  bery ; 
No  mo'  Ise  late  an'  after  date 

In  His  great  sanctuary. 
I  reach  in  time  de  house  ob  pra'r, 

No  mo'  is  I  belated; 
An',  bress  my  soul !  dat  watch  I  stole, 

To  troof  am  consecrated." 

"  But  how  about  that  suit  of  clothes  ? " 

"  Dat  soot,"  said  Sambo,    rising, 
"  I  stole  dat  soot  to  serve  de  Lawd 

An'  wear  at  my  baptizin'." 
"But  how  about  those  two  fat  fowls?" 

"  I  tuk  dem  fowls,  yo'  Honah, 
Fum  ol'  John  Bell,  a  infidel, 

A  scoffah,  an'  a  scornah ; 
Fum  dat  bad,  unbelievin'  man, 

Dat  unregenerit  sinner, 
Dem  fowls  I  stole  fum  dat  lost  soul 

Fer  Elder  Putnam's  dinner." 


ON  this  wide  planet  there  is  room 

For  men  of  opposite  creed ; 
There's  room  for  Mr.   Justin  Bloom 

And  Mr.  Gontoseed. 
For  both  these  mortals  there  is  need, 

For  both  there's  ample  room, 
Though  Justin  Bloom  hates  Gontoseed, 

And  Gontoseed  hates   Bloom. 

"  Out  from  the  dead  past's  darkened  gloom 

I  march  to  break  of  day ; 
I  face  the  sun,"  says  Justin  Bloom, 

"  Tap  drums,  and  march  away  !  " 
15 


1 6  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

"  The  wisdom  of  the  ancient  days 

Serves  all  my  spirit's  need  ; 
I  keep  the  good  old  precious  ways," 

Says  Mr.  Gontoseed. 

And  Justin  Bloom,  if  left  alone, 

Would  set  the  world  on  fire  ; 
And  Gontoseed,  and  all  his  breed, 

Would  stagnate  in  the  mire. 
While  one  would  plunge  in  the  abyss, 

One  saunter  on  the  grass, 
One  holds  back  from  the  precipice, 

One  leaps  the  wide  morass. 

Though  one  is  full  of  rest  and  sleep, 

And  one  is  full  of  noise, 
They  both  together  work  to  keep 

The  world  in  equipoise. 
On  this  wide  planet  there  is  room 

For  both  ;  and  both  we  need. 
Three  cheers,  three  cheers  for  Justin  Bloom  ! 

Three  cheers  for  Gontoseed ! 


'J7?r  Confessions  of  a  Lunkhead  17 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  LUNKHEAD 


I'M   a  lunkhead,   an'   I  know  it ;    'tain't   no  use  to 

squirm  an'  talk, 
I'm  a  gump  an'   I'm   a   lunkhead,  I'm    a    lummux, 

I'm  a  gawk. 
An'  I  make  this  interduction  so  thet  all  you  folks 

can  see 
An'  understan'  the  natur'  of  the  critter  thet  I  be. 

I  allus  wobble  w'en   I   walk,  my  j'ints  are  out   er 

gear, 
My  arms  go  flappin'  through   the  air,  jest  like  an 

el'phunt's  ear ; 
An'  w'en   a  womern  speaks  to    me    I    stutter    an' 

grow  weak, 
A  big  frog  rises  in  my  throat,  an'  he  won't  let  me 

speak. 

Wall,    thet's   the  kind    er  thing  I  be ;    but  in    our 

neighborhood 
Lived  young  Joe  Craig  an'  young  Jim   Stump  an' 

Hiram  Underwood. 
We  growed  like  corn  in  the  same  hill,  jest  like  four 

sep'rit  stalks  ; 


1 8  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

For    they  wuz    lunkheads,  jest   like   me,    an'    lum 
muxes  an'  gawks. 


Now,  I   knew  I  wuz  a  lunkhead ;  but  them  fellers 

didn'  know, 
Thought    they   wuz    the    bigges'    punkins    an'    the 

purtiest  in  the  row. 
An'  I,  I  uster  laff  an'  say,  "Them  lunkhead  chaps 

will  see 
Wen  they  go  out  into  the  worl'  w'at  gawky  things 

they  be." 

Joe  Craig,  he  wuz  a  lunkhead,  but  it  didn'  get 
through  his  pate  ; 

I  guess  you've  all  heerd  tell  of  him  —  he's  gov'nor 
of  the  State  ! 

Jim  Stump,  he  blundered  off  to  war  —  a  most  un- 
common gump  — 

Didn'  know  enough  to  know  it  —  an'  he  come 
home  General  Stump. 

Then  Hiram  Underwood  went  off,  the  bigges'  gawk 

of  all, 
We  thought  him  hardly  bright  enough  to  share  in 

Adam's  fall ; 
But    he    tried    the  railroad    biz'ness,    an'    he    allus 

grabbed  his  share, — 


77ie  Confessions  of  a  Lunkhead  iy 

Now  this  gawk  who  didn't  know  it  is  a  fifty  mil- 
lionaire. 

An'   often  out  here   hoein'  I  set  down  atween  the 

stalks, 
Thinkin'  how  we  four  together  all  were  lummuxes 

an'  gawks, 
All  were  gumps  an'  all  were  lunkheads,  only  they 

didn'  know,  yer  see  ; 
An'  I   ask,  "  If  I  hadn'   known  it,  where  in  natur' 

would  /  be?" 

For  I  stayed  to  home  an'  rastled  in  the  cornnel',  like 

a  chump, 
Coz  I  knew  I  wuz  a  lunkhead  an'  a  lummux  an'  a 

gump; 
But  if  on'y  I  hadn'  known  it,  like  them  other  fellers 

there, 
To-day  I  might  be  settin'  in  the  presidential  chair. 

We  all  are  lunkheads  —  don't  git  mad  —  an'  lum- 
muxes an'  gawks  ; 

But  us  poor  chaps  who  know  we  be  —  we  walk  in 
humble  walks. 

So,  I  say  to  all  good  lunkheads,  Keep  yer  own 
selves  in  the  dark; 

Don't  own  or  reckernize  the  fact,  an'  you  will  make 
yer  mark. 


20  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


FIXING    THE   OLD    THING   RIGHT 


SAID  Adam  unto  Seth,  his  son, 

"  My  boy,  my  life  is  nearly  done  ; 

I  am  the  first  man  ever  made, 

And  yet  a  failure,  I'm  afraid. 

And  you,  my  boy,   must  bring  to  men 

Your  father's  Eden  back  again. 

You  must  correct  our  great  mistake, 

Our  foolish  blunder  with  the  snake. 

The  world  has  wandered  from  the  light; 

Go  in  and  fix  the  old  thing  right." 

Said  Seth  to  Enos,  his  first  born, 

"  My  boy,  your  life  is  in  its  morn ; 

You've   scarcely  passed  from  boyhood's  stage, 

You're  but  four  hundred  years  of  age. 

I've  struggled  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 

And  lived  above  five  hundred  years  ; 

And  now  I  feel  that  there  can  be 

But  a  few  centuries  more  for  me. 

I've  tried  my  prettiest  since  my  birth 

To  steer  and  regulate  the  earth ; 


Fixing  the  Old  Thing  Right 

But  all  of  Nature's  plan,  I  fear, 
Is  pretty  badly  out  of  gear. 
So,  while  I  travel  toward  the  night, 
Go  in  and  fix  the  old  thing  right." 

Said  Enos  unto  Cainan,  "  Lad, 
I  fear  the  world  is  growing  bad  • 


21 


But  when  I  see  before  me  spread 
Your  large  development  of  head, 
And  know  you  deem  all  wisdom  shut 
And  focussed  in  your  occiput, 
I  feel  that  here  is  one  at  last 
Who  should  redeem  the  wretched  past; 
And  so  I  say,  take  up  the  fight, 
Go  in  and  fix  the  old  thing  right." 

Said  Cainan  to  Mahalaleel, 

"The  envious  years  upon  me  steal, 


22  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  now  I  feel  as  old  and  dried 

As  father  Enos  when  he  died. 

Though  I  possessed,  as  father  said, 

A  large  development  of  head, 

The  world  would  'haw'  when  I  said  'gee,' 

And  *  gee  '  when  I  said  *  haw.'     Ah,  me  ! 

I've  tried  for  these  nine  hundred  years 

To  drive  this  balky  yoke  of  steers ; 

And  now  I  pass  the  goad  to  you, 

To  do  the  best  that  you  can  do. 

And  when  old  Cainan  fades  from  sight, 

Go  in  and  fix  the  old  thing  right." 

Mahalaleel  to  Jared  said, 

"  My  son,  'tis  time  that  I  were  dead  ; 

And  in  this  view  of  mine,  I  guess, 

You  too  have  come  to  acquiesce. 

The  world  has  reached  a  sorry  plight ;  " 

Go  in  and  fix  the  old  thing  right." 

So  Jared,  when  his  life  was  done, 
The  same  to  Enoch  talked,  his  son. 
And  Enoch,  like  a  faithful  pa, 
The  same  to  young  Methuselah, 
Who  near  a  thousand  years  of  strife 
Mourned  o'er  the  brevity  of  life, 
And  said  to  Lamech,  "  Life  is  short, 
And  very  little  I  have  wrought, 


Fixing  the   Old  Thing  Right  23 

Though  I  might  make  the  world  sublime 

And  perfect,  if  I  had  the  time. 

But  in  my  life's  contracted  span 

I  have  but  merely  just  began  ; 

No  earthly  power  my  life  can  save, 

I  seek  my  premature  grave. 

My  son,  take  up  the  unfinished  fight ; 

Go  in  and  fix  the  old  thing  right." 

Soon  Lamech  left  the  world  to  Noah, 
Just  as  his  fathers  had  before. 
And  then  the  Flood  came  on  to  rout 
And  drown  the  whole  Creation  out ; 
Though  all  had  tried  with  main  and  might, 
They  failed  to  fix  the  old  thing  right. 

But  when  a  man  is  born  to-day, 

He  starts  out  in  the  good  old  way, 

And  bravely  works  from  dawn  till  night, 

To  try  to  fix  the  old  thing  right. 

The  same  old  lightning  in  the  blood 

That  thrilled  men's  hearts  before  the  Flood, 

Drives  all  men  to  the  endless  fight, 

To  try  and  fix  the  old  thing  right. 

And  though  the  clouds  of  doubt  draw  nigh, 

And  shut  the*  sun  from  out  the  sky, 

And  though  life  marches  through  the  gloom 

To  music  of  the  steps  of  doom, 


24  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

A  voice  comes  through  the  darkness  far, 
And  smites  the  cloud-wrack  like  a  star, 
And  makes  its  thunder-blackness  bright, 
"  Go  in  and  fix  the  old  thing  right." 


lie    Worried  About  It  25 


HE   WORRIED  ABOUT  IT 


THE  sun's  heat  will  give  out  in  ten  million  years 
more,  — 

And  he  worried  about  it. 
It  will  sure  give  out  then,  if   it  doesn't  before  — 

And  he  worried  about  it. 
It  will  surely  give  out,  so  the  scientists  said 
In  all  scientifical  books  he  had  read, 
And   the   whole   boundless  universe  then  will   be 
dead  — 

And  he  worried  about  it. 

And  some  day  the  earth  will  fall  into  the  sun  — 
And  he  worried  about  it  — 

Just  as  sure  and  as  straight  as  if  shot  from  a  gun  — 
And  he  worried  about  it. 

"  When  strong  gravitation  unbuckles  her  straps, 

Just  picture,"  he  said,  "  what  a  fearful  collapse  ! 

It  will  come  in  a  few  million  ages  perhaps  "  — 
And  he  worried  about  it. 

And   the   earth  will   become    much    too   small  for 
the  race  — 

And  he  worried  about  it  — 


hffi  from    Wild  Meadows 


26 


When    we'll    pay   thirty   dollars    an    inch    for   pure 
space  — 

And  he  worried  about  it. 

The  earth  will  be  crowded  so  much,  without  doubt, 

There  won't  be  room  for  one's  tongue  to  stick  out, 

Nor  room  for  one's  thoughts  to  wander  about  — 

And  he  worried  about  it. 


And  the  Gulf    Stream  will  curve,  and   New  Eng- 
land grow  torrider  — 

And  he  worried  about  it  — 

Than     was     ever    the     climate     of     southernmost 
Florida  — 

And  he  worried  about  it. 

Our  ice    crop   will  be    knocked    into   small    smith- 
ereens, 

And  crocodiles  block  up  our  mowing-machines, 
And    we'll    lose    our   fine    crops    of    potatoes    and 
beans  — 

And  he  worried  about  it. 


He    Worried  About  It  27 

And   in   less  than   ten   thousand  years,  there's   no 
doubt  — 

And  he  worried  about  it  — 
Our  supply  of  lumber  and  coal  will  give  out  — 

And  he  worried  about  it. 

Just  then  the  ice-age  will  return  cold  and  raw, 
Frozen  men  will  stand  stiff  with  arms  outstretched 

in  awe, 

As  if  vainly  beseeching  a  general  thaw  — 
And  he  worried   about  it. 

His  wife  took  in  washing  —  half  a  dollar  a  day  — 

He  didn't  worry  about  it  — 

His    daughter    sewed    shirts    the    rude    grocer    to 
pay- 

He  didn't  worry  about  it. 

While  his  wife  beat  her  tireless  rub-a-dub-dub 
On  the  washboard  drum  of  her  old  wooden  tub, 
He  sat  by  the  stove,  and  he  just  let  her  rub  — 
He  didn't  worry  about  it. 


28  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meaihws 


HAYTOWN'S  BOOM 


THEY  said  that  Hay  town  would  just  boom  when 

Dorkins's  creamery  came, 
And    take  its    place    upon    the   map    with  other 

towns  of  fame ; 
They  talked  as  if  this  creamery,  when    on    the 

town  it  burst, 
Would  start  another  Eden  more  salubrious  than 

the  first. 

And  so,  day  after  day,  the  town  to  Badger's  store 

would  flock, 
And  hold  a  glorious  fast  from  work,  and   have  a 

feast  of  talk  ; 
Through  years  of  hopeful  waiting  did  these  tillers 

of  the  soil 
Keep  up  a  maximum  of  talk,  a  minimum  of  toil. 

And  so,  at  last,  when  Dorkins  came,  the  impe- 
cunious crowd 

All  went  to  him  beseeching  loans,  with  pleadings 
long  and  loud  ; 

And  Dorkins  dropped  at  every  tale  the  sympa- 
thetic tear, 


Hay  town's  Boom  29 

And  also  dropped  his  precious  cash,  and  failed 
up  in  a  year. 

And  then   the  rumor    spread  abroad,  a  railroad 

would  come  down 
From  Cheltenham  to  Yonkersville,  and  pass  right 

through  the  town  ; 
And  they  all   thought    the   earliest    train    would 

bring  the  town  success, 
Would  bring  down  the  millennium,  prepaid,  by 

fast  express. 

They  talked  as  if  the  freight  trains  through  each 

man's  yard  would  roar, 
And  bring  round  bars  of  solid  gold  to  drop   at 

each  man's  door ; 
And  every  man  at  Badger's  store  was  burdened 

with  the  care 
Of  how  he'd  spend  his  money  when  he  grew  a 

millionaire. 

And  after  many  weary  years  the  railroad  did  come 

down, 
And   half  the  people  took  this    chance    to  just 

move  out  of  town  ; 
And  they  all  reasoned  thankfully,  "  Why  should 

we  longer  stay, 
When  Providence  has  furnished  such  a  means  to 

get  away  ? " 


30  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

But  all  the  men  who  stayed  behind  soon  had  an- 
other tale, 

How  'twas  proposed  in  Hay  town  to  erect  the 
county  jail. 

"  The  jail  is  coming  !  "  shouted  all,  the  matron, 
man,  and  boy. 

"  The  jail  is  coming !  "  and  the  town  did  effer- 
vesce with  joy. 

"And    when    the    jail    shall    come,"    they  said, 

"  'twill  give  the  town  a  boom, 
Our  fame  shall  go  to  all  the  world  loud  as  the 

crack  of  doom ; 
And  all  the  country  round  about  shall  envy  us 

afar, 
A  good  two-story  granite  jail  will  give  us  grand 

eclat  f" 

And  in  two  years  the  jail  was  built,  a  landmark 

highly  prized, 
And  the  best  hopes  of  Hay  town  then  were  fully 

realized  ; 
The  hopes  involved  in  this  new  jail,  like  others 

did  not  fail, 
For  soon  one-half  the  town  secured  apartments 

in  the  jail. 


Land  On    Your  Feet  31 


L/1ND  ON  YOUR  FEET 


You  take  a  cat  up  by  the  tail, 

And  whirl  him  round  and  round, 
And  hurl  him  out  into  the  air, 

Out  into  space  profound, 
He  through  the  yielding  atmosphere 

Will  many  a  whirl  complete; 
But  when  he  strikes  upon  the  ground 

He'll  land  upon  his  feet. 

Fate  takes  a  man,  just  like  a  cat, 

And,  with  more  force  than  grace, 
It  whirls  him  wiggling  round  and  round, 

And  hurls  him  into  space ; 
And  those  that  fall  upon  the  back, 

Or  land  upon  the  head, 
Fate  lets  them  lie  there  where  they  fall- 

They're  just  as  good  as  dead. 

But  some  there  be  that,  like  the  cat, 
Whirl  round  and  round  and  round, 

And  go  gyrating  off  through  space, 
Until  they  strike  the  ground; 


32  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadoivs 

But  when  at  last  the  ground  and  they 

Do  really  come  to  meet, 
You'll  always  find  them  right  side  up  — 

They  land  upon  their  feet. 

And  such  a  man  walks  off  erect, 

Triumphant  and  elate, 
And  with  a  courage  in  his  heart 

He  shakes  his  fist  at  fate  ; 
Then  fate  with  a  benignant  smile 

Upon  its  face  outspread, 
Puts  forth  its  soft,  caressing  hand 

And  pats  him  on  the  head. 

And  he's  fate's  darling  from  that  day, 

His  triumph  is  complete; 
Fate  loves  the  man  who  whirls  and  whirls, 

But  lands  upon  his  feet. 
That  man,  whate'er  his  ups  and  downs, 

Is  never  wholly  spurned, 
Whose  perpendicularity 

Is  never  overturned. 


Erastus    Wren's    Virtue  33 


ERASTUS  W 'REN'S  VIRTUE 


ERASTUS  WREN  was  virtuous,  in  spirit  and  in  letter, 
Was  very  virtuous   and    good,   and    daily  growing 

better ;  - 
And  so  immaculate  was  he,  his  neighbors,  men  and 

maids, 
They  daily  looked  to  see  the  wings  sprout  from  his 

shoulder-blades. 

He  wouldn't  eat  rice  ;  he  wouldn't  drink  tea  no  more 

than  he'd  drink  rum, 
For  they  were  grown  by  heathen  hands  in  darkest 

heathendom ; 
He'd  have  no  fellowship,  he  said,  with  men  who 

thus  behaved, 
Nor  boom  the  industries  of  men  so  totally  depraved. 

So  he  lived  devoid  of  coffee  and  of  cocoanuts  and 

spice, 
And  when  his  folks  had  lemon-pie  he  never  touched 

a  slice ; 
And   he'd   never  taste    of    pudding,    nay!    unless, 

beyond  a  doubt, 


34 


Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


The  cook  deposed  and  guaranteed  all  nutmeg  was 
left  out. 

He  wouldn't  wear  cotton  shirts  at  all,  because  he 
was  afraid 


The  girls  who  work  in  cotton  mills  are  sometimes 

underpaid  ; 
And  once  he  thought  he'd  wear  no  wool,  it  gave 

him  such  a  shock 
When  he  was  told  that  one  black  sheep  was  found 

in  every  flock. 


Erastus    Wren's    Virtue 


35 


And  he  never  read  the  papers,  and  he  never  would 

begin, 
He  said  they  reeked  with  wickedness,  iniquity,  and 

sin  ; 
He  wouldn't  consult  the  dictionary,  nor  turn  a  leaf, 

not  he, 
Because  he  said  it  held  bad  words  no  good  man 

ought  to  see. 

There  was  no  food  for  him  to  eat,  no  clothes  for 

him  to  wear, 

No  mental  sustenance  at  all  to  suit  him  anywhere  ; 
And  so  he  died,  —  the  thing  to  do  to  round  out  his 

perfection,  — 
And    not    a   living    man   arose  to    make   the    least 

objection. 


LET  loftier  poets  sing  of  knights, 

Of  fairies,  sylphs,  and  satyrs, 
Of  sprites  and  fays  of  ancient  days, 

And  other  outworn  matters, 
Of  kings  and  ancient  heroes  brave  — 

I  sing  a  newer-comer, 
A  man  whom  fate  created  late, 

Her  masterpiece,  —  the  drummer. 

He  never  fears  the  face  of  man, 

Meets  all  men  on  a  level ; 
Nor  snub  nor  bruise  can  make  him  lose 

His  perpendicular  bevel. 
Brave  as  those  mythic  crews  who  sought 

The  Hesperidian  apples ; 
For,  unafraid,  with  lords  of  trade 

And  merchant  kings  he  grapples. 

He  rights  with  monarchs  of  the  mart, 
He  meets  them  in  their  fastness, 

Shows  them  his  sleek  expanse  of  "  cheek,'* 
And  awes  them  with  its  vastness, 
36 


The  Drummer  37 

The  merchant  king  behind  his  bales 

Yields  to  the  bold  marauder  ; 
He  cowers  and  quakes  —  the  drummer  takes 

His  thousand-dollar  order. 

He  flies  upon  the  wings  of  steam, 

Nor  times  nor  tides  restrict  him  ; 
And  from  his  flights  he  only  lights 

To  swoop  upon  his  victim. 
He  swoops  —  then  comes  the  tug  of  tongues, 

Of  vibrant  voices  wrangling; 
Loud  blows  are  dealt  —  then  in  his  belt 

Another  scalp  is  dangling. 

A  thousand  miles  is  but  a  step, 

The  continent  a  straddle, 
When  on  his  steed  of  wondrous  speed 

He  buckles  on  the  saddle. 
The  sunrise  and  the  sunset  sea 

To  him  are  near  together  ; 
With  tropic  glow  and  polar  snow 

He  sandwiches  his  weather. 

The  longitudes  and  latitudes 

He  leaps  in  tireless  motion, 
This  shuttlecock  between  New  York 

And  the  Pacific  Ocean. 


38  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

This  continent  waltzer  still  will  dance 
Through  states  and  nations  spinning, 

And  change  his  climes  as  many  times 
As  most  men  change  their  linen. 

"The  soul  that  hustles  not  shall  die," 

This  is  the  creed  he  preaches  ; 
And  'twill  agree  with  you  and  me 

To  heed  the  truth  he  teaches. 
Life  is  no  languid  holiday, 

No  long  and  idle  summer  ; 
Come,  pack  your  grip,  get  up  and  skip, 

And  hustle,  like  a  drummer  ! 


The  Ideal  Husband  to  His    Wife  39 


THE  IDEAL  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  WIFE 


WE'VE  lived  for  forty  years,  dear  wife, 

And  walked  together  side  by  side, 
And  you  to-day  are  just  as  dear 


As  when  you  were  my  bride. 
I've  tried  to  make  life  glad  for  you, 

One  long,  sweet  honeymoon  of  joy, 
A  dream  of  marital  content, 

Without  the  least  alloy. 
I've  smoothed  all  boulders  from  our  path, 

That  we  in  peace  might  toil  along ; 
By  always  hastening  to  admit 

That  I  was  right  and  you  were  wrong. 


40  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

No  mad  diversity  of  creed 

Has  ever  sundered  me  from  thee ; 
For  I  permit  you  evermore 

To  borrow  your  ideas  of  me. 
And  thus  it  is,  through  weal  or  woe, 

Our  love  for  evermore  endures  ; 
For  I  permit  that  you  should  take 

My  views  and  creeds,  and  make  them  yours. 
And  thus  I  let  you  have  my  way, 

And  thus  in  peace  we  toil  along 
For  I  am  willing  to  admit 

That  I  am  right  and  you  are  wrong. 

And  when  our  matrimonial  skiff 

Strikes  snags  in  love's  meandering    stream, 
I  lift  our  shallop  from  the  rocks, 

And  float  as  in  a  placid  dream. 
And  well  I  know  our  marriage  bliss 

While  life  shall  last  will  never  cease ; 
For  I  shall  always  let  thee  do, 

In  generous  love,  just  what  I  please. 
Peace  comes,  and  discord  flies  away, 

Love's  bright  day  follows  hatred's  night ; 
For  I  am  ready  to  admit 

That  you  are  wrong  and  I  am  right. 

Dear  wife,  when  discord  reared  its  head, 
And  love's  sweet  light  forgot  to  shine, 


The  Ideal  Husband  to  His    Wife  41 

'Twas  then  I  freely   would  permit 

That  thy  will  should'st  conform  to  mine. 
In  all  things,  whether  great  or  small, 

In  all  life's  path  we've  wandered  through, 
I've  graciously  let  you  perform 

Just  what  I  wanted  you  to  do. 
No  altercation  could  destroy 

The  love  that  held  us  sure  and  strong ; 
For  evermore  would  I  admit 

That  I  was  right  and  you  were  wrong. 

Sweet  wedded  love  !  O  life  of  bliss ! 

Our  years  in  peace  have  flown  along ; 
For  you  admit  that  I  was  right, 

And  I  admit  that  you  were  wrong. 
No  dogged  stubbornness  of  soul 

Has  ever  wrenched  my  heart  from  thine ; 
For  thy  will  ever  was  my  own 

Because  thy  will  was  always  mine. 
So  sweet  forgiveness  crowns  our  years, 

And  sheds  on  us  its  tender  light ; 
For  I  admit  that  you  were  wrong, 

And  you  admit  that  I  was  right. 


42  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  SILENCE  OF  JED  DURKEE 


THERE  is  some  men  is  cataract  men,  their  talk  for- 
ever flows ; 

They  are  real  Niag'ry  spouters  —  an'  I  hain't  no 
use  for  those. 

They  talk  as  fast  as  fellers  work  w'en  workin'  by 
the  job  ; 

Their  speech,  w'en  shelled,  is  one  part  corn  an' 
ninety-nine  parts  cob. 

Jed  Durkee  was  a  diff'runt  sort ;  I  tol'  my  wife  his 

tongue 
Had  slipped  the  trolley-wire  off  that  hitched  it  to 

his  lung. 
He  kinder  had  to  fish  for  words,  an'  bob  his  bait  a 

sight, 
An'  sometimes  bob  a  half  a  day  afore  he'd  get  a 

bite. 

He'd  cock  his  eye  an'  lissen,  but  he'd  never  move 

his  lip, 

An'  let  the  other  fellers  spout,  but  never  raise  a  yip ; 
An'  if  the  sillickman  himself  should  stop  an'  talk  to 

Jed, 


The  Silence  of  Jed  Durkee  43 

'Twas  ten  to  one  if  Jed  would  smile  or  open  up  his 
head. 

But   Jed  he  had  a  little  gal,  an'  she  alone  could 

creep 
Up  to  the  sluiceway  of  his  heart  an'  open  up  his 

deep; 


An'  then  the  stored-up  elerkunce  of  forty  years  of 

strife 
Flowed  through  the  thirsty  medders  of  his  dusty, 

dried-up  life.   . 

W'y,  w'en  he  talked  about  that  gal,  his  piled  words 

came  in  waves, 
Demosthernes    an'    Sissero   flopped   over    in    their 

graves  ; 
The  great  sea  of  his  speech  bust  loose,  bust  loose 

before  he  knowed,  — 


44  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

'Twas  high  tide  in  his  natur',  an'  his  ocean  over- 
flowed. 

To  hear  him  talk  about  that  gal  beat  all  the  flowery 

pomes 
Of  John  Shakespeare,  William  Milton,  or  Wendull 

Phillups  Holmes. 
Like  showers  on  a  sultry  day,  he  made   the  earth 

rejoice ; 
For  there  was   lightnin'  in  his  eye  an'  thunder  in 

his  voice  ! 

She  put  new  ginger  in  his  blood  an'  new  wine  in 

his  brain  ; 
She  put  new  yeast  into   his   soul  an'  made  it  rise 

again  ; 
She  made  him  a  new  heaven  an'  earth,  a  new  heart 

an'  new  head, 
An'  out  of  miser'ble  job-stock  a  bran'  new  man  of 

Jed. 

In  a  foreign  Ian'  of  silence  he  had  allus  strayed 

apart ; 
But  she  played  upon  the  long  strings  of  the  fiddle 

of  his  heart, 
Touched  'em  with  her  baby  fingers,  an'  she  played 

upon  'em  long  — 
An'  he  left  the  Lan'  of  Silence  for  the  Music  Lan' 

of  Song  ! 


The  Silence  of  Jed  Durkee  45 

There's    music    in  the    dumbest  man   that  can   be 

made  to  start 
If  the  proper  kin'  of  fiddler  on'y  fiddles  with  his 

heart ; 
Music  sweet  of  fifes  and  bugles,  cornets,  violins,  an' 

drums, 
Wen  to  the    thousan'-stringed   ol'  harp    the    right 

musician  comes. 

Little  Nancy  was  the  right  one,  an'  she  woke  him 

from  the  dead, 
An'  she  drew  out  splendid  music  from  the  cracked 

ol'  harp  of  Jed. 
Wen  little  Nancy  went  away  beyon'  these  scenes 

of  strife, 
Then  all  the  music  died  away  from  ol'  Jed  Durkee's 

life. 

Back    into    the   Lan'   of   Silence  did  he   travel  fur 

away, 
An'  the  fiddle-strings  were  silent,  for  there  warn't 

no  han'  to  play  — 
Back  into  his  dead,  dumb  exile,  back  into  his  Silent 

Lan'- 
An'   he's  waitin'   there   the   beck'nin'   of   his  little 

Nancy's  han'. 


IN  seventeen  hundred  seventy-two 

Did  the  good  matron,  Prudence  True, 

A  saintly  soul  devoid  of  guilt, 

Begin  her  famous  crazy  quilt, 

And  told  her  helpmeet,  Goodman  True, 

She'd  finish  in  a  month  or  two  ; 

And  Goodman  True,  as  good  men  do, 

Believed  his  good  wife,  Prudence  True. 

And  when  he  found  his  supper  late, 
Brave  Goodman  True  in  silence  sate, 
And  waited  till  his  good  wife  built 
Another  square  of  crazy  quilt. 
He  did  not  rave  or  loudly  speak, — 
Much  married  life  had  made  him  meek,  - 
For  he  had  learned  from  his  sweet  bride 
A  husband's  part  is  to  subside, 
To  sit  serene,  composed,  and  dumb, 
And  in  domestic  peace  succumb. 
He  on  the  martyr  plan  was  built, 
And  lived  a  martyr  to  that  quilt. 
46 


Prudence  True  V  Crazy   Quilt  47 

Good  Prudence  True,  as  good  dames  do, 
Each  day  her  loved  task  would  pursue  ; 
Each  evening  her  brave  husband  tried 
To  look  content  and  edified, 
And  those  slow,  patient  hours  beguile 
With  his  sad,  long-enduring  smile. 
Long  years  did  that  poor,  sad  soul  wilt, 
Then  die  at  last  —  of  crazy  quilt. 

Long  years  passed  on,  and  Widow  True 
Toiled  on,  as  all  good  widows  do, 
And  in  her  calm  seclusion  curled 
Heard  not  the  noises  of  the  world. 
The  echoes  of  the  Concord  fight, 
The  battle  fought  on  Bunker's  height, 
The  cannonade  from  Yorktown  blown, 
That  scared  King  George  upon  his  throne, 
She  heeded  as  a  trivial  thing ; 
For  what  are  conqueror  or  king 
To  a  good  dame  whose  life  is  built 
Into  her  darling  crazy  quilt  ? 

She  never  thought  if  she  preferred 

George  Washington  to  George  the  Third  ; 

Her  quilt  was  life's  supremest  thing, 

Both  under  president  and  king  ; 

While  loyal  to  her  quilt  and  true, 

She  thought  that  either  George  would  do. 


48  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

Gray,  full  of  years,  the  good  soul  died, 
And  passed  on  to  the  Glorified, 
And  left  this  scene  of  woe  and  guilt 
And  her  unfinished  crazy  quilt. 

And  then  her  youngest  daughter,  Ruth, 

In  all  the  hopefulness  of  youth, 

That  knows  no  obstacle  or  fears, 

Took  up  the  mighty  task  of  years. 

Her  smile  was  sweet,  her  eyes  were  bright, 

Her  touch  was  fairy-like  and  light  ;- 

And  lovers  read  within  her  eyes 

The  tale  of  happy  destinies. 

And  many  came  and  knelt  and  sued  ; 

But  on  the  quilt  her  eyes  were  glued. 

She  saw  them  not  as  there  they  knelt, 

Love's  hurtling  dart  she  never  felt, 

But  gave  them  all  to  understand 

She  had  a  mission  great  and  grand, 

A  noble  and  exalted  aim 

Beyond  preposterous  Cupid's  claim  ; 

A  great  ambition,  grand  and  high, 

To  finish  up  that  quilt  and  die. 

And  brave  Ruth  kept  her  purpose  good 
Through  fourscore  years  of  maidenhood  ; 
And  so  she  lived  and  died  a  maid, 
And  when  she  in  the  grave  was  laid, 


Prudence  True  's  Crazy   Quilt  49 

Her  sister's  youngest  daughter,  Sue, 
Took  her  unfinished  quilt  to  do. 

Meantime  old  empires  passed  away, 

Old  kingdoms  fell  in  slow  decay, 

And  senile  monarchs,  weary  grown, 

Slipped  down   from  many  a  tottering  throne ; 

Old  realms  were  conquered  by  their  foes, 

Old  kingdoms  fell,   new  nations  rose ; 

And  long  engendered  wars  that  rent 

The  bases  of  a   continent 

Swept  on  their  path  of  fire  and  death, 

And  shrivelled  with  their  fatal  breath 

The  slow-built  fabric  of  the  years, 

And  left  a  track  of  blood  and  tears. 

But  while  the  whirling  world  did  range 

Adown  "the  ringing  grooves  of  change," 

While  Time's  resistless  current  flowed, 

Young  Sue  she  sewed  and  sewed  and  sewed 

And  sewed  and  sewed,  and  slowly  built 

The  squares  upon  that  crazy  quilt. 

And  now  she's  old  and  bent  and  gray, 
Her  youthful  friends  have  passed  away, 
Her  loving  husband's  tomb  is  built  — 
But  still  she  works  upon  her  quilt. 
And  now,  deserted  and  forlorn, 
To  generations  yet  unborn, 


50  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

When  she  has  left  this  world  of  guilt, 
She'll  pass  along  her  crazy  quilt. 

In  six  short  days  the  world  was  done, 
The  world,  the  planets,  and  the  sun  ; 
But  in  a  hundred  years  are  built 
A  fraction  of  a  crazy  quilt. 


The  Deacon  's  Bear  -  Yarn  5 1 


THE  DE /ICON'S  BEAR-YARN 


WHEN  the   Deacon    told    his   bear-yarn  we    would 

gather  round  to  hear  him, 

In  open-mouthed  expectancy  to  drink  in  all  he  said ; 
For   all    list'ners    who    drew    near    him    could    not 

choose  but  to  revere  him, 
For  an   aureole   of   honor  rested  on  the  Deacon's 

head. 
'Twas  a  tale  of  gore  and  slaughter,  where  the  red 

blood  flowed  like  water, 
Such  as  ear  had  never  heard  of,  or  the  heart  could 

not  conceive ; 
But  our  faith  did  never  weaken  in  that  bear-yarn  of 

the  Deacon  — 
When    the    Deacon  told   his   bear-yarn   we  would 

listen  and  believe. 

We  had  listened  to  the  horse-liar  and  the  fish-liar 

and  the  snake-liar, 
But  they  told  no  tale  of  wonder  with  the  Deacon's 

to  compare  ; 
Though  their  tales  were  dark  and  dire,  not  a  tale  of 

not  a  liar 


52 


Whiffs  from    }ViId  Meadows 


Approached  the  truthful  story  of  the  Deacon  and 

the  bear. 
'Twas  a  tale  of  awful  terror,  but  without  a  shade  of 

error ; 
And  whereas  it  was  impossible  the   Deacon  could 

deceive, 


We  knew  the  Deacon's  bear-yarn  was  an   honest, 

fair,  and  square  yarn  — 
When    the    Deacon    told    his   bear-yarn    we    would 

listen  and  believe. 


When  the  Deacon  told  his  bear-yarn  we  could  hear 
the  bones  a-breaking, 


The  Deacon's  Bear-Yarn  53 

And  the  loud  reverberations  of  the  bear's  resound- 
ing growl ; 

We  could  feel  the  mountains  shaking,  and  the  very 
planet  quaking, 

And  the  air  a-palpitating  with  the  thunder  of  his 
howl. 

Oh,  the  sanguinary,  savage  fierceness  of  the  awful 
ravage 

Of  the  roaring,  ravening  monster,  heart  of  man  can- 
not conceive  ! 

But,  whereas  we  knew  the  Deacon  from  the  truth 
could  never  weaken  — 

When  the  Deacon  told  his  bear-yarn  we  would 
listen  and  believe. 


When  the  fierce  bear  wound  his  red  jaws  round  the 
white  neck  of  the  Deacon, 

And  we  heard  the  Deacon  gurgle  with  a  death- 
gasp  of  despair, 

How  our  trembling  knees  would  weaken  as  we 
gazed  upon  the  Deacon, 

And  our  lifted  hats  go  flying  from  our  perpendicu- 
lar hair ! 

When  into  the  mad  bear's  vitals  —  strangest  of  all 
strange  recitals  — 

Did  the  Deacon  plunge  his  right  arm,  with  its  reek- 
ing, bloody  sleeve, 


54  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  tear   out  the  bear's    heart    beating,    as  you'd 

tear  a  piece  of  sheeting  — 
When   the  Deacon  told  this  bear-yarn   we    would 

listen  and  believe. 

Fiercer,  wilder,  grew  the  contest  every  time  we  did 

behold  it, 
Wilder,  fiercer,  fought  the  Deacon,  fiercer,  wilder, 

raged  the  bear; 
It  was  bloodier,  more  terrific,  every  time  the  Deacon 

told  it, 
Till  at  length  there  was  no  story  with  this  bear-yarn 

could  compare. 

Bear  and   Deacon    mixed   and   mangled,  gore    in- 
crusted,  blood  bespangled, 
Dance  through    sanguinary  waltzes  that  the  mind 

cannot  conceive; 
But  there  is  a  deathless  beauty  in  all  truth,  and  'tis 

our  duty 
When  the  Deacon  tells  his  bear-yarn  just  to  listen 

and  believe. 


Gideon  Gaskins  V  Deaths  5  5 


GIDEON  GASKINS'S  DEATHS 


OLD  Gideon  Gaskins  used  to  die 

With  unexampled  frequency ; 
Indeed,  the  joys  of  death  to  him 

Possessed  unusual  piquancy. 
An  upright,  downright  man  was  he, 

Of  rule  and  regulation  ; 
And,  barring  his  repeated  deaths, 

He  had  no  dissipation. 
He  lived  a  life  of  ordered  peace, 

Of  sweetness,  truth,  and  charity; 
But  through  his  long  and  honored  life 

He  died  with  regularity. 

And  every  time  that  Gideon  died 

He  wished  the  sad  reality 
To  be  observed  and  recognized 

With  decent-like  formality  ; 
And  so  his  heirs  about  his  bed 

Were  ranged  in  due  position, 
To  hear  at  each  repeated  death 

His  dying  admonition. 


56  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

They  shed  a  proper  flood  of  tears, 
Their  sobs  were  uncontrollable, 

And  every  time  that  Gideon  died 
Their  grief  was  inconsolable. 

And  every  time  that  Gideon  died 

He  gave  an  exhortation, 
To  which  he'd  given  life-long  thought 

And  years  of  preparation  ; 
A  speech  that  sagged  with  good  advice 

Which  he  had  learned  memoriter, 
Which  made  a  fame  for  Gideon 

As  a  great  dying  orator. 
And  when  he'd  made  this  dying  speech 

To  friend  and  heir  and  lover, 
The  dying  Gideon  would  begin 

To  speedily  recover. 

And  then  the  iron  grasp  of  death 

That's  usually  so  rigorous, 
Would  quietly  let  go  its  grip 

And  leave  him  strong  and  vigorous. 
But  then  within  a  month  or  two 

The  summons  would  go  flying 
To  all  of  Gideon's  heirs  to  come, 

For  he  once  more  was  dying; 
And  when  the  weeping  heirs  once  more 

About  his  bed  were  seated, 


Gideon   Gaskins^s  Deaths  57 

Then  would  his  time-worn  dying  speech 
Be  once  again  repeated. 

And  so  he  died  year  after  year, 

Till  all  his  heirs  were  buried, 
Till  they  in  Charon's  fatal  boat 

Had  o'er  the  stream  been  ferried. 
For  all  his  heirs  they  died  one  death, 

And  lived  a  life  of  brevity; 
But  he  who  died  so  frequently 

Attained  a  great  longevity. 
Ye  who  would  taste  a  long,  sweet  life 

In  all  its  lengthy  piquancy, 
When  you  are  young  begin  to  die, 

And  keep  it  up  with  frequency. 


Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


BEN  BURLAP'S  BARN 


BEN   BURLAP  bragged   about   his  barn   with   every 

man  he  see ; 
He    said    it    \vuz    the    finest    barn    that    any    barn 

could  be. 
Sez    he,   "  The  worl'  is  full  er  barns  ;    but    still    I 

calkerlate 
There   ain't   no  barn  like  Burlap's  barn,  an'  hain't 

been  up  to  date." 


An'    w'en    yer    saw    a    wild-eyed    man    who    raised 

consid'ble  rumpus, 
An'    waved    an'    flapped    his    arms    aroun'    to    all 

p'ints  of  the  compass, 
An'  swished  his  whiskers   in  the  wind,  an'  spun  a 

half-day  yarn, 
You'd  know  it  wuz   Ben    Burlap,  sure,  expoundin' 

on  his  barn. 


Ben  Burlap's  Barn  59 

An'  I  went  down  to  see  his  barn  ;  he  hung  on  so 

like  sin, 
One    day    I    tol'    my   wife    I    guessed    I'd   go    an' 

take  it  in. 
'Twuz   jest  ez   good  ez  Jim    hed    said,  ez   fine  ez 

it  could  be ; 
It  beat  all  barns  I  ever  see,  or  ever  'spect  to  see. 

Wen  I  come  out,  sez  I  to  Jim,  "What's  that 
small  buildin'  there, 

That  kinder  wobbly  lookin'  thing,  that  tumble- 
down affair? 

It  looks  so  ricketty  an'  weak,  'tain't  fit  to  hoi'  a 
mouse." 

"Oh,  yes,"  sez  Jim,  "it's  full  er  mice;  that  ar  hut 
is  my  house." 


60  Whiffs  from    Wild  Mea clou 


DESERTED  FARMS 


YES,  the    farms   is   all   deserted ;    there   is  no    one 

here  to  see 
But  jest   a  few  ol'  women  an'  a  few  oF  men  like 

me ; 
But  we   still   cling,  like  oF  gray  moss,  a  little  tot- 

terin'  band  — 
We    cling  like  oF  gray  moss    aroun'  the    ruins    of 

the  land. 

OF  Christopher  Columbus,  in  fourteen  ninety- 
two, 

He  lifted  up  a  bright  green  worF  from  out  the 
ocean  blue  ; 

But  all  thet  New  WorF  hereabouts  —  an'  Pokum- 
ville  ain't  small,  — 

Our  young  men  hez  diskivered  ain't  worth  livin' 
in  at  all. 

There  ain't  no  room    atween    the  rocks  to  dig  a 

livin'  out ; 
Our  soil    is    much    too  thin   and   poor  to    make    a 

fortune  sprout ; 


Deserted  Farms  61 

Our  scrub-oaks  bear  no   greenback    leaves,  an'  in 

our  tater-hills 
We  have  to  dig  too   long  an'  hard  to  scratch  out 

dollar  bills. 

An'  so    our   boys   hez   travelled    off   to   where   the 

millions  go 
To   dig   a   golden   harvesting  without    a    spade    or 

hoe  ; 
An'  down  the  railroad,  through   the  gulch,  be'end 

their  father's  sight, 
They  went  an'  left  us  oP  men  to  the  shadders  of 

the  night. 

But    some    hez    foun'    the    rocks    an'    weeds    still 

choke  a  barren  land, 
An'   life    is    not    all    intervale,  but    some    is   dusty 

sand  ; 
An'  he  who  digs  a  harvest  in  the  country  or  the 

town 
Must  hoe  among  the  stubborn  rocks  an'  keep  the 

thistles  down. 

But  'tis  better  for  the  young  man  an'  the  ol'  man 

side  by  side 
To    drive    life's    team    together,  an'    so   down    the 

journey  ride  ; 


62  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

An'  w'en    the    ol'   man,  tires    out    an'  falls    asleep 

some  day, 
The   young   man,  he   can   take    the    reins   an'  ride 

upon  his  way. 

But    our  farms    is    all    deserted ;    there   is    no    one 

here  to  see 
But  jest  a  few  ol'  women  an'  a  few  ol'  men  like 

me ; 
But    we    still    cling,    like    ol'   gray    moss,   a    little 

totterin'  band  — 
We    cling    like  ol'  gray  moss    aroun'  the    ruins   of 

the  land. 


I'M  a  Presbyterian  deacon,  and  I  wish  to  plainly 

state 

That  every  kind  of  circus  is  entirely  reprobate  ; 
They   all    are    instrumental    in    advancing    Satan's 

plan, 
An  evidence  of  the  innate  depravity  of  man. 

A  vanity  of  vanities,  and  there  is  nothing  worse, 
A  vile  abomination  and  a  pestilential  curse ; 
And  I  make  it  thus  emphatic,  for  I  wish  all  men 

to  know 
To  every  kind  of  circus  I'm  an  unrelenting  foe. 

And  down   to  Grassville  yesterday,  where  I   went 
down  to  trade, 

63 


64  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

The  wicked  circus   came   to  town,  and   had  a  big 

parade ; 

And  I  beheld  there  watching  it,  in  most  ungodly  joy, 
In  graceless,  unregenerate  glee,  a  woman  and  her 

boy. 

And  I  thought  it  was  my  duty,  as  a  deacon  in 
the  land, 

To  give  that  wicked  woman  my  professional  rep- 
rimand. 

I  tried  to  do  it  piously,  and  said  my  little  say, 

Mixed  with  Scriptural  quotations  in  an  edifying  way. 

And    then    she    said,    "Why,    me    and    Jim    have 

walked  ten  miles  to-day 
To  see  the  big  procession  ;  do  you  think  it's  wrong 

to  stay  ? 
And  every  day  now  for  three  months  my  Jim  and 

I  have  made 
The   tired    time   pass    quicker  when   we've  talked 

of  this  parade. 

"  Jim  is  a  small  boy,  mister,  and  boys  are  fond  of 

fun  ; 
But   there's   nothing   for  a  widow's   boy  but  work 

from  sun  to  sun. 
And,   like    a   little   hero,    he   has   worked    in    sun 

and  shade, 


The  Deacon  and  the  Circus  65 

And    the    only    thought    to    cheer    him    was    the 
dream  of  this  parade. 

"  And    we've    walked    ten    miles    to    see    it,    and 

must  now  walk  home  again  ; 
But    for   a    year    will    this    parade    go    marching 

through  Jim's  brain, 
And  when    his    young    limbs    ache    with    toil,   and 

his  young  heart  is  sore, 
He  will    hear  its    blare    and  music,  and  will    then 

be  strong  once  more. 

"  Come,  Jim,"  she  said  ;  "  the  big  parade  has  now 

passed  out  of  sight, 
And  we    must    start    upon    our  trip    to   get    back 

home  to-night." 
"Just   wait  a   bit,"    says   I    to   her,    "just   wait   a 

bit,  don't  go  ; 
For   here's   two  dollar  bills  for  you,  —  go  in    and 

see  the  show." 

I'm  a  Presbyterian  deacon,  and  I  wish  to  plainly 

state 

That  every  kind  of  circus  is  entirely  reprobate  ; 
But   when    I   gave   that   money,  I've  a   faith  that 

will  abide 
That  the  Recording  Angel  placed  it  on  my  credit 

side. 


66  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


JED  JOHNSON'S  ADVICE 


WEN  ol'  Ben  Badger's  pug-nosed  Pete 

Declared  he'd  wallop  me, 
I  jest  took  up  my  laigs  an'  run, 

Ez  scat  ez  I  could  be  ; 
But  ol'  Jed  Johnson  said  to  me, 

"  Don't  be  a  baby,  Jim ; 
You'll  fin'  he's  jest;  ez  scat  of  you 

Ez  you  are  scat  of  him. " 

Bimeby  w'en  I  fust  fell  in  love 

My  brain  wuz  in   a  whirl ; 
But  ol'  Jed  Johnson  said  to  me, 

"Young  man,  go  tell  the  girl. 
Yes,  you  are  scat  to  death,  'tis  true  ; 

But  let  me  tell  ye,  sir, 
You'll  fin'  her  jest  ez  scat  of  you 

Ez  you  are  scat  of  her." 

An'  w'en  I  run  for  sillickman 

Agin  ol'   Hiram  Brown, 
He  run  so  well  I  felt  thet  I 

Mus'  haul  my  colors  down  ; 


Jed  Johnson's  Advice  67 

But  then  Jed  Johnson  said  to  me, 
"  Hi  Brown's  a  good  un,  Jim  ; 

But  then  he's  jest  ez  scat  of  you 
Ez  you  are  scat  of  him." 

An'  so  I  licked  Ben  Badger's  Pete, 

An'  won  ol'  Podgkin's  Sal ; 
An'  she's  ez  scrumptious  ez  a  wife 

Ez  she  was  ez  a  gal. 
I  whipped  ol'  Brown  for  sillickman 

So  quick  his  head  did  swim ; 
I  foun'  he  wuz  ez  scat  of  me 

Ez  I  wuz  scat  of  him. 

An'  so  I  say,  wade  in,  young  man, 

An'  though  yer  nerve  is  weak, 
An'  though  yer  tremble  like  a  leaf, 

An'  feel  yer  lack  of  cheek, 
Go  wade  right  in  among  the  crowd, 

An'  every  current  stem  ; 
You'll  fin'  they're  jest  ez  scat  of  you 

Ez  you  are  scat  of  them. 


68  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


DURKEE'S  MILL 


THE  world,  they  say,  is  heaped  with  wealth, 

Its  vaults  are  stored  with  treasure, 
Enough  to  purchase  bread  for  all, 

And  fill  the  world  with  pleasure, 
And  food  enough  is  in  the  land 

All  hungry  mouths  to  fill ; 
But  all  we  eat  and  wear  must  come 

Through  Durkee's  cotton-mill. 
And  great  fear  settled  on  the  town 
When  Durkee's  cotton-mill  shut  down. 

There  is  a  world  that's  filled  with  joy, 

And  strewn  with  blooming  flowers ; 
But,  outside  Durkee's  cotton-mill 

No  world  for  us  and  ours. 
When  the  great  wheel  of  Durkee's  mill 

Paused  and  no  longer  whirled, 
It  seemed  the  great  God  with  his  hand 

Had  stopped  the  rolling  world  ; 
For  all  the  world  we  hope  to  fill 
Is  bound  in  Durkee's  cotton-mill, 


Durkee's  Mill  69 

From  dawn  to  dusk  in  Durkee's  mill 

We  toil  and  never  shirk; 
No  time  to  think,  no  time  to  feel, 

And  only  time  to  work. 
And  many  a  web  of  cotton  cloth 

That  mill  has  woven,  no  doubt ; 
And  many  a  man's  and  woman's  life 

That  mill  has  ravelled  out. 
But  still  a  great  fear  smote  the  town 
When  Durkee's  cotton-mill  shut  down. 

There's  bitter  thoughts  for  Durkee's  mill, 

Now  little  Bob  is  dead; 
For  had  I  work  in  Durkee's  mill 

I  might  have  bought  him  bread. 
"When  I  go  up  to  heaven,"  he  said, 

"And  find  God  there,  you  know, 
I  will  be  bold,  and  ask  him  then, 

Because  I  love  you  so, — 
I'll  ask  the  great  God,  so  I  will, 
To  start  the  work  in  Durkee's  mill." 


70  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  WORK-SEEKER 


You   think  I'd  better   go  to  work?      Wall,  that's 

my  own  idee ; 

I'll  do  it  w'en  I  find  the  work  that's  suitable  for  me. 
Won't  give  me  bread  because  ye  think  I'm  strong 

enough  to  work  ? 
Wall,  w'en  I  find  my  kind  of  toil  I'll  labor  like  a 

Turk. 

"Keep    strugglin'    on,"    our    pastor    said,    "  keep 

strugglin'  in  life's  race, 
For  ev'ry  man    who   toils  an'   tries  will   allus  find 

his  place  ; 
For    Natur'    never   made  a  man  but  at  the  same 

time,  too, 
She  made  some  fittin,'  special  work  for  that  same 

man  to  do." 

An'  so  I  started  out  in  life  resolved  to  never  shirk, 
To  hunt   the  wide  worl'  up    an'  down   to  find   my 

special  work. 

I  started  out  to  find  my  work,  all  ready  to  begin  it ; 
But  all  the  work  I  ever  fonn'  had  too  much  labor 

in  it. 


The    Work-Seeker  71 

At   first    I  worked    on   father's  farm ;    but    soon    I 

come  to  see 
That    never    was     the    kind   er    work    that    Natur' 

meant  for  me. 


She  surely  never  meant  this  kind  for  sich  as  me 

to  do  ; 
For  work  was  far  too  numerous,  an'   resl  was  far 

too  few. 

An'  next  T   went    into  the    store   of    Deacon  Isr'el 
Brown, 


7  2  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

For  oppertunities    'twould  give  fer  rest  an'  settin' 

down ; 
But  customers  kep'  droppin'  in  to  wake  me  from 

my  doze, 
An'    broke    in    on   my    sleep    so    much    I    couldn't 

have  no  repose. 

An'  then  I    lef  the   Deacon's  store,  an'  run  away 

to  sea, 
"I'm  boun'  to  find  the  work,"  says  I,  "that  Natur' 

meant  for  me." 
I  kinder  liked  to  sail  aroun'  beneath  them  foreign 

skies ; 
But  still  I  foun'  the  work  was  mixed  with  too  much 

exercise. 

Sence   then  I've  tramped  about   the    earth  to  try 

if  I  could  see 
Some  kind  of  unlaborious  work  that  Natur'  meant 

for  me  ; 
And  so  to  help  a  brave  young  man  to  boldly  push 

ahead, 
I   frankly    ask  ye   for   a   loan    of   jest   a  piece  of 

bread. 

That's  right ;  I   knew  you'd  fetch  it   out    soon  as 
my  tale  was  tol,' 


The    Work-Seeker  73 

You  are  a  woman  glad  to  aid  a  strong,  ambitious 

soul. 
Now   you    might  fetch,  to   quench   my  thirst,  —  I 

find  I'm  feelin'  dry, — 
A  glass  er  milk,  some  jelly  cake,  an'  sev'rul  kinds 

of  pie. 


74  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


JACK  DAIVSON'S  PILGRIMAGE 


JACK  DAWSON  lived  way  down  in  Maine, 
Hoed  corn,  raised  chickens,  and  reaped  grain ; 
But  said  that  Maine  was  not  designed 
For  men  of  mastery  and  mind  ; 
And  said  a  man  of  any  soul 
Shouldn't  vegetate  in  such  a  hole. 
"  Vermont's  the  State,"  says  he,   "  I  want ; 
And  I'll  raise  butter  in  Vermont." 

At  butter,  then,  Jack  took  a  turn, 
But  found  it  too  hard  work  to  churn. 
"The  air  here  in  Vermont,"  says  he, 
"  Is  much  too  rarefied  for  me ; 
No  man  of  enterprise  and  dash, 
Who  hankers  after  fame  and  cash, 
Will  browse  around  this  barren  peak, 
And  grind  his  nose  down  to  a  beak ; 
These  hills  may  soak  in  snow  and  sleet,  — 
I'll  go  to  Kansas  and  raise  wheat." 

Jack  found  the  weevils  in  his  wheat 
Would  neither  parley  nor  retreat; 


Jack  Daw  son's  Pilgrimage  75 

Then  said  that  Kansas  was  a  place 
Unsuited  to  the  human  race ; 
But  'twas  a  most  delightful  State 
From  which  to  skip  and  emigrate. 
To  California  he  escapes, 
And  settles  down  to  raising  grapes. 

When  half  his  yearly  crop  was  lost 

By  a  hard,  premature  frost, 

Jack  said,   "  This  country  is  a  failure ; 

I  ship  next  Monday  for  Australia." 

He  found  Australia  was  too  new, 

Its  risks  too  great,  its  gains  too  few. 

He  said,  "  No  longer  I'll  stay  curled 

In  this  back  entry  of  the  world ; 

And  this  time  I  propose  to  go 

To  where  my  gifts  will  have  a  show. 

There  is  a  city  of  some  size, 

Wherein  a  soul  of  enterprise 

Can  heap  up  piles  of  gold  and  gain, 

And  find  a  chance  to  use  his  brain, 

And  reach  great  affluence  and  renown  "  — 

And  so  Jack  sailed  to  London  town. 

Jack  landed  confident  and  proud, 
But  soon  was  missing  in  the  crowd. 
He  mingled  in  the  general  swim  ; 
And  Gladstone  never  called  on  him, 


7  6  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  still  the  Queen  she  sat  alone, 
Nor  asked  him  up  to  share  her  throne. 
He  mingled  in  the  million  rout, 
And  fate  refused  to  sift  him  out. 
Jack  vanished,  but  the  rolling  world 
Upon  its  axis  still  was  whirled  ; 
The  symptoms  of  the  universe 
Were  not  much  better  nor  much  worse. 
And  when  friend  Jack  appeared  again, 
'Twas  six  months  later  down  in  Maine. 

And  Jack  he  settled  down  in  Maine, 

Hoed  corn,  raised  chickens,  and  reaped  grain  ; 

He'd  travelled  round  the  world  to  find 

A  place  just  suited  to  his  mind, 

And  found  it,  after  years  of  doubt  — 

The  town  from  which  he  started  out. 

"  The  way  to  get  on  fast,"  says  he, 

"Is  just  to  stay  right  where  you  be." 


The  Calf-Path  77 


THE  CALF-PATH 


I. 

ONE  day  through  the  primeval  wood 

A  calf  walked  home  as  good  calves  should ; 

I 

But  made  a  trail  all  bent  askew, 
A  crooked  trail  as  all  calves  do. 

Since  then  three  hundred  years  have  fled, 
And  I  infer  the  calf  is  dead. 

II. 

But  still  he  left  behind  his  trail, 
And  thereby  hangs  my  moral  tale. 

The  trail  was  taken  up  next  day 
By  a  lone  dog  that  passed  that  way; 

And  then  a  wise  bell-wether  sheep 
Pursued  the  trail  o'er  vale  and  steep, 

And  drew  the  flock  behind  him,  too, 
As  good  bell-wethers  always  do. 

And  from  that  day,  o'er  hill  and  glade, 
Through  those  old  woods  a  path  was  made. 


Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

III. 

And  many  men  wound  in  and  out, 
And  dodged  and  turned  and  bent  about, 

And  uttered  words  of  righteous  wrath 
Because  'twas  such  a  crooked  path  ; 

But  still  they  followed  —  do  not  laugh  — 
The  first  migrations  of  that  calf, 

And  through  this  winding  wood-way  stalked 
Because  he  wobbled  when  he  walked. 

IV. 

This  forest  path  became  a  lane, 

That  bent  and  turned  and  turned  again ; 

This  crooked  lane  became  a  road, 
Where  many  a  poor  horse  with  his  load 

Toiled  on  beneath  the  burning  sun, 
And  travelled  some  three  miles  in  one. 

And  thus  a  century  and  a  half 
They  trod  the  footsteps  of  that  calf. 

V. 

The  years  passed  on  in  swiftness  fleet. 
The  road  became  a  village  street ; 


The  Calf-Path  79 

And  this,  before  men  were  aware, 
A  city's  crowded  thoroughfare. 

And  soon  the  central  street  was  this 
Of  a  renowned  metropolis  ; 

And  men  two  centuries  and  a  half 
Trod  in  the  footsteps  of  that  calf. 

VI. 

Each  day  a  hundred  thousand  rout 
Followed  this  zigzag  calf  about 

And  o'er  his  crooked  journey  went 
The  traffic  of  a  continent. 

A  hundred  thousand  men  were  led 
By  one  calf  near  three  centuries  dead. 

They  followed  still  his  crooked  way, 
And  lost  one  hundred  years  a  day; 

For  thus  such  reverence  is  lent 
To  well-established  precedent. 

VII. 

A  moral  lesson  this  might  teach 

Were  I  ordained  and  called  to  preach ; 

For  men  are  prone  to  go  it  blind 
Along  the  calf-paths  of  the  mind, 


80  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  work  away  from  sun  to  sun 
To  do  what  other  men  have  done. 

They  follow  in  the  beaten  track, 
And  out  and  in,  and  forth  and  back, 

And  still  their  devious  course  pursue, 
To  keep  the  path  that  others  do. 

They  keep  the  path  a  sacred  groove, 
Along  which  all  their  lives  they  move  ; 

But  how  the  wise  old  wood-gods  laugh, 
Who  saw  the  first  primeval  calf. 

Ah,  many  things  this  tale  might  teach  — 
But  I  am  not  ordained  to  preach. 


The  Fly-Away-Bird 


81 


THE  FLY-AWAY-BIRD 


OH,  the  Fly-Away-Bird  is  swift  of  wing, 
And  swift  and  high  is  he ! 


And  he  flies  as  high,  in  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

As  any  birds  that  be. 
And  fleet  of  foot  is  the  lusty  man, 

As  fleet  as  a  winged  word, 
Who  can  sprinkle  salt,  without  default, 

On  the  tail  of  the  Fly-Away-Bird. 


82  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

But  the  Fly- A  way- Bird  seems  as  tame  as  a  hen, 

Like  a  barnyard  fowl  seems  he  ; 
But    the    nest    he    has    made,    or    the    egg   he   has 
laid, 

Is  a  stubborn  absentee. 
And  when  a  man,  with  a  sprinkle  of  salt, 

Comes  near  to  his  roosting-place, 
The  bird  he  darts  to  the  outermost  parts 

Of  the  farthest  shores  of  space. 

But  we  all  chase  after  the  Fly-Away-Bird, 

Over  river  and  mountain  and  dale, 
And  think  in  an  hour  we'll  have  the  power 

To  sprinkle  the  salt  on  his  tail ; 
But  still,  since  the  base  of  the  planet  was  laid. 

And  the  morning  stars  wrere  heard, 
No  fortunate  fellow  has  felt  of  the  mellow 

Bright  plumes  of  the  Fly-Away-Bird. 

For  the  Fly-Away-Bird  is  our  own  bright  dream, 

Tis  the  hope  that  was  born  with  man  ; 
Then  follow  it  far,  to  the  uttermost  star, 

To  the  clear  blue's  farthest  span. 
And  the  man  who  has  no  Fly-Away-Bird 

Is  a  mortal  most  forlorn ; 

It   were    better    that    he    should    be    sunk    in    the 
sea, 

Or  that  he  had  never  been  born. 


The  Fly -Aw ay- Bird  83 

See  !  he  lights  up  there  on  the  Crags  of  Hope, 

And  his  wings  they  gleam  in   the  sun 
With  the  gorgeous  dyes  of  the  sunset  skies 

When  the  summer  day  is  done  ; 
And  though  this  bird  was  never  yet  caged 

In  a  narrower  cage  than  the  sky, 
Whoso  is  deterred  from  chasing  the  bird, 

Tis  time  for  that  man  to  die. 

Then  up  and  away  for  the  Fly-Away-Bird  ! 

Let  us  lead  him  a  jolly  good  race ; 
And  let  every  man  know  that  the  bird  that  flies 
low 

Is  no  kind  of  a  bird  to  chase. 
Then  up  and  away  for  this  high-flying  fowl ! 

Let  him  pierce  to  the  deeps  of  the  sky; 
Let  him  understand,  with  the  salt  in  our  hand, 

We'll  chase  till  the  day  that  we  die. 


84  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


TRUTH 


THERE'S    a    hand    on    the    rudder    that    will    not 
flinch, 

There's  no  fear  in  the  Pilot's  face 
As  he  guides  the  worlds,  like  boats  in  a  storm, 

Through  the  rocking  seas  of  space. 
And  whether  they  make  the  harbor  at  last, 

Beyond  the  shoals  and  the  swell, 
Or  sail  forever  a  shoreless  sea, 

I  know  that  all  is  well. 

And  I  learn   these  things  from  the    heart  of   the 
wood, 

From  the  solemn  soul  of  the  sea ; 
For  never  a  bird  in  a  wire-bound  cage 

Told  all  these  things  to  me. 

And  the  soul  of  man  is  a  sunward  bird, 
With  wings  that  are  made  for  flight, 

To  pierce  to  the  fount  of  the  shining  day, 
And  float  through  the  depths  of  night. 

And  I  read  these  things  in  that  Bible  of  God, 
Whose  leaves  are  the  spreading  sky, 

And  the  legible  face  of  the  dark  green  sea, 


Truth  85 

With  the  eye  behind  the  eye. 
For  truth  is  not  closed  in  the  lids  of  a  book, 

For  its  chainless  soul  is  free ; 
And  never  a  bird  in  a  wire-bound  cage 

Told  all  these  things  to  me. 


For  truth  surges  into  the  open  heart, 

And  into  the  willing  eye, 

And    streams    from    the    breath    of    the    steaming 
earth, 

And  drops  from  the  bending  sky ; 
Tis  not  shut  in  a  book,  in  a  church,  or  a  school, 

Nor  cramped  in  the  chains  of  a  creed, 
But  lives  in  the  open  air  and  the  light 

For  all  men  in  their  need  ! 


86  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

But  the  fish  that  swims  in  a  goldfish  vase, 

Knows  not  of  the  salted  sea  ; 
And  never  a  bird  in  a  wire-bound  cage 

Told  all  these  things  to  me. 

'Tis  the  Voice  that  comes  from  the  gilded  peaks, 

From  the  hills  that  shoulder  the  sky, 
Through    the    topless     heights    of    a    man's    own 
dreams 

This  Voice  goes  wandering  by; 
And  who  roams  the  earth  with  an  open  heart, 

With  an  ear  attuned  to  hear, 
Will  catch  some  broken  chord  of  the  sound 

Whenever  the  Voice  comes  near. 
But  not  past  the  prison  of  custom  or  creed 

Will  the  Voice  or  the  Vision  flee  ; 
And  never  a  bird  in  a  wire-bound  cage 

Told  all  these  things  to  me. 


New    Year's  at  Hard  Fact  Meadows          87 


NEW  YEAR'S  AT  HARD  FACT  MEADOWS 

HOPE  came   to   me  last  New   Year,  and  told   her 

pretty  lie, 
How  she'd  make  the  earth  grow  greener,  how  she'd 

scour  up  the  sky, 
How  she'd  make  the  stars  shine  brighter,  ere  the 

coming  year  was  done, 
Make   the   grave   moon    more    resplendent,   polish 

up  the  ancient  sun. 

And  my  bird  of  promise  sat  there  on  a  very  near- 
by rail, 

And  he  lightened  all  my  back-yard  with  the  plu- 
mage of  his  tail ; 

And  he  gazed  with  Orphic  meaning  from  the  cor- 
ner of  his  eye, 

Which  proceeding  I  translated,  "Come  and  catch 
me ;  here  am  I." 

And  I  sauntered  out  to  catch  him  as  he  sat  there 

on  the  rail, 
With   the   salt   of  expectation   to   be   sprinkled  on 

his  tail ; 


88  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  I    reached  my   hand  to  grasp  him,  with  glad 

hope  upon  my  face, 
When   I  found  that  he  had  vanished  to  the  other 

side  of  space. 

This  bird  of  paradise  I  chased  did  never  once 
alight  ; 

And  the  fish  in  Hope's  great  ocean,  which  I  bobbed 
for,  did  not  bite ; 

And  Fortune's  fairest  apples  grew  beyond  my  long- 
est pole ; 

And  Fate's  fattest  woodchuck  dodged  me,  and 
escaped  into  his  hole. 

My  freighted    ship    that   sailed    from    Spain    sank 

'neath  the  ocean  spray  ; 

And  Fortune's  eel  it  wiggled  so  I  let  it  slip  away ; 
And  my  dark-breasted  grapes  of  luck  that  hung  in 

pendent  shapes 
Were  stolen  by  another  chap  who  had  a  taste  for 

grapes. 

On  the  Go  and  Get  There  Railroad,  Hope  pre- 
sented me  a  pass, 

Good  for  a  Pullman  palace  car,  with  everything 
first-class  ; 

And  she  checked  my  baggage  for  me,  and  she 
said  'twould  all  be  found 


New    Year  fs  at  Hard  Fact  Meadows          89 

At  the  Get  There  Central  Station  where  her 
through  express  was  bound. 

Away  the  engine  bounded,  and  the  bridges  creaked 
and  swayed, 

And  the  Pullman  rocked  and  trembled,  but  we 
swept  on  undismayed  ; 

And  we  dashed  on  through  the  fog-banks,  till  a 
rotten  culvert  cracked, 

And  we  rolled  down  the  embankment  to  the  Mead- 
ows of  Hard  Fact. 

And    since   then    I've     bought    a    pickaxe,    and     a 

shovel  and  a  hoe, 
And    I've    ditched    the    Hard  Fact    Meadows,  and 

I've  made  'em  bloom  and  grow ; 
Though    I've    raised    no    golden  harvest,   I     have 

made  my  farming  pay  ; 
And  I've  raised   fair     grass     upon     them,   and   it 

makes  nutritious  hay. 

But  still  the  ancient  rumors  float  into  my  meadow 
here, 

That  Hope  makes  prodigious  promise  for  the  com- 
ing glad  New  Year  ; 

That  she  offers  still  free  passage  on  the  Go  and 
Get  There  train - 

But  I've  got  my  Hard  Fact  hay-crop  to  get  in 
before  the  rain. 


90  Whiffs  from    }Vilit  Meadows 

So  the  fish  in  Hope's  great  ocean  I  no  more  invite 

to  bite, 

Nor  the  soaring  bird  of  paradise  I  beckon  to  alight ; 
I  let  Fortune's  fairest  apples  go  untroubled  by  my 

pole, 
And  Fate's  fattest  woodchuck  amble  his  own  gait 

into  his  hole. 

But  I've  found  the  Hard  Fact  Meadows,  now  I've 
drained  them,  sweet  and  fair, 

And  I  smell  the  scent  of  daisies  and  of  clover  in 
the  air  ; 

And  though  no  untoiled-for  manna  from  the  gener- 
ous heaven  drops  — 

Bring  my  hoe  and  spade  and  sickle,  I  will  gather 
in  my  crops. 


The  Fate  of  Pious  Dan  91 


THE  FATE  OF  PIOUS  DAN 


"  RUN  down  and  get  the  doctor,  quick  !  " 

Cried  Jack  Bean  with  a  whoop. 
"  Run,   Dan  ;  for  mercy's  sake  be  quick ! 

Our  baby's  got  the  croup." 
But  Daniel  shook  his  solemn  head, 

His  sanctimonious  brow, 
And  said,  "  I  cannot  go,  for  I 

Must  read  my  Bible  now  ; 
For  I  have  regular  hours  to  reaa 
The  Scripture  for  my  spirit's  need." 

Said  Silas  Gove  to  Pious  Dan, 

"  Our  neighbor,  'Rastus  Wright, 
Is  very  sick  ;  will  you  come  down 

And  watch  with  him  to-night  ? " 
"  He  has  my  sympathy,"  says  Dan, 

"  And  I  would  sure  be  there, 
Did  I  not  feel  an  inward  call 

To  spend  the  night  in  prayer. 
Some  other  man  with  Wright  must  stay; 
Excuse  me  while  I  go  and  pray." 


92  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

"Old  Briggs  has  fallen  in  the  pond  !  " 

Cried  little  Bijah  Brown  ; 
"  Run,  Pious  Dan,  and  help  him  out, 

Or  else  he  sure  will  drown  !  " 
"  I  trust  he'll  swim  ashore,"  said  Dan, 

"  But  now  my  soul  is  awed, 


And  I  must  meditate  upon 

The  goodness  of  the  Lord  ; 
And  nothing  merely  temporal  ought 
To  interrupt  my  holy  thought." 

So  Daniel  lived  a  pious  life, 

As  Daniel  understood, 
But  all  his  neighbors  thought  he  was 

Too  pious  to  be  good ; 


The  Fate  of  Pious  Dan  93 

And  Daniel  died,  and  then  his  soul, 

On  wings  of  hope  elate, 
In  glad  expectancy  flew  up 

To  Peter's  golden  gate. 
"  Now  let  your  gate  wide  open  fly  ; 
Come,  hasten,   Peter!     Here  am   I.11 

"  I'm  sorry,   Pious  Dan,"  said  he, 

"  That  time  will  not  allow ; 
But  you  must  wait  a  space,  for  I 

Must  read  my  Bible  now." 
So  Daniel  waited  long  and  long, 

And  Peter  read  all  day. 
"  Now,  Peter,  let  me  in,"  he  cried. 

Said  Peter,  "  I  must  pray ; 
And  no  mean  temporal  affairs 
Must  ever  interrupt  my  prayers." 

Then  Satan,  who  was  passing  by, 

Saw  Dan's  poor  shivering  form, 
And  said,   "  My  man,  it's  cold  out  here, 

Come  down  where  it  is  warm." 
The  angel  baby  of  Jack  Bean, 

The  angel  'Rastus  Wright, 
And  old  Briggs,  a  white  angel  too, 

All  chuckled  with  delight ; 
And  Satan  said,   "  Come,  Pious  Dan, 
For  you  are  just  my  style  of  man." 


94  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


A  MISLAID   CONTINENT 


Now  let  us  run  the  list  over, 
Of  men  preceding  Christopher, 
Who    came    before    Columbus   came,   that    laggard 

dull  and  slow  ; 

The  early  Buddhist  missionaries, 
Those  rapt  religious  visionaries, 
Who     thirteen     hundred     years      ago     discovered 
Mexico. 

An  Irishman  named  Brendin 
(The  list  is  never  ending) 
He  crossed  the  Sea  of  Darkness,  crossed  the  wild, 

untravelled  main. 

He  thought  that  he  would  try  a  land 
Some  miles  away  from  Ireland ; 
So   he,   twelve    hundred    years    ago,  discovered    us 
again. 

Leif  Ericson,  the  Norseman, 
A  regular  old  sea-horseman, 

Who  rode   the   waves  like    stallions,   and    couldn't 
endure  the  shore, 


Continent  95 


Five  hundred  years  thereafter 
Said  to  his  wife  in  laughter, 
It's  time  to  go  and  find,  my  dear,  America  once 


& 
more.' 


And  so  he  went  and  found  it, 
With  the  ocean  all  around  it, 
And  just  where  Brendin  left  it  five  hundred  years 

before ; 

And  then  he  cried,  "  Eureka  ! 
I'm  a  most  successful  seeker !  " 
And   then  —  went   off    and  lost   it,   could   not   find 
it  any  more. 

They  fought  the  sea,  and  crossed  it, 
And  found  a  world  —  and  lost  it ; 
Those  pre-Columbian  voyagers  were  absent-minded 

men. 

Their  minds  were  so  preoccupied, 
That  when  a  continent  they  espied, 
They  absently  mislaid  it,  and  it  couldn't  be  found 
again. 

But  Columbus  when  he  found  us 
Somehow  kept  his  arm  around  us, 
For  he   knew  he   must  be   careful   when  he  found 
a  hemisphere  ; 


96  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  he  knew  just  how  to  use  it, 
And  he  didn't  misplace  and  lose  it. 
And    mislay   it   in   a   corner    where   it   couldn't   be 
found  next  year. 

Like  a  pretty  worthless  locket 
He  didn't  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
And  drop  the  New  World  through  a  hole  that  he'd 

forgot  to  mend  ; 
But  he  kept  his  eye  upon  it, 
And  he  kept  his  finger  on  it, 

And   he  kept  his  grip  upon  it,  and  held  on  it  to 
the  end. 


Fate's  Frustrated  Joke  97 


FATE'S  FRUSTRATED  JOKE 


ONCE  Fate  with  an  ironic  zest 
Made  man  —  a  most  delicious  jest. 
"  From  out  the  void   I  man  evoke," 
Said  Fate,  "  my  best  and  latest  joke  ! 
I  stand  him  on  two  slender  props, 
Two  pins  on  which  the  creature  hops. 
I'll  watch  the  unbalanced  gawky  sprawl, 
Prong  after  prong  behold  him  crawl ; 
And  when  a  strong  wind  from  the  east 
Blows  on  this  perpendicular  beast, 
I'll  laugh  to  see  him  topple  o'er, 
And  all  the  gazing  gods  shall  roar ! 

"  This  mite  shall  feed  the  lion's  maw, 
And  dangle  on  the  tiger's  paw, 
Shall  be  the  sportive  panther's  prey, 
And  flee  from  dragons  night  and   day. 
This  featherless  bird  of  awkward  mould 
Shall  chatter  through  the  winter's  cold ; 
No  hair  or  wool  to  him  I  give, 
No  turtle  shell  in  which  to  live ; 
Nor  can  he,  like  the  bear,"  said  Fate, 


98  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

"  Dig  holes  in  which  to  hibernate. 
Out  in  the  universe  I  fling 
This  naked,  helpless,  shivering  thing. 
Of  all  my  jokes  this  is  the  best, 
This  is  my  masterpiece  of  jest ! " 

But  Fate  in  mixing  man  his  brains 
Forgot  to  take  the  usual  pains, 
Dropped  in,  and  made  a  fearful  muss, 
An  extra  scoop  of  phosphorus  ; 
Then  man,  he  slyly  said,  "You  wait, 
And  I  will  get  the  joke  on  Fate !  " 

He  did  not  feed  the  lion's  maw, 

Or  dangle  on  the  tiger's  paw, 

But  cut  the  lion  into  steak, 

And  used  his  skin  a  coat  to  make. 

The  whirlwind  from  the  east  might  blow, 

But  still  it  could  not  overthrow 

This  featherless  biped;  for  'tis  plain 

This  extra  phosphorus  in  his  brain 

Was  just  enough  upon  each  limb 

To  hold  him   up  and  balance  him. 

And  so  through  all  the  years  that  come 

He  keeps  his  equilibrium. 

And  so  this  pronged  and  toppling  thing 
Stood  straight,  and  made  himself  a  king  ; 


Fate's  Frustrated  Joke  99 

This  straddling  biped  did  not  fail 

To  rule  the  elephant  and  whale, 

For  even  great  Leviathan 

Accepts  the  sovereign  sway  of  man. 

And  sheltered  safe  from  wounds  and  scars 

His  thoughts  went  out  beyond  the  stars, 

And  travelled  through  Time's  shoreless  sea, 

And  "  wandered  through  eternity." 

And  baffled  Fate  said,  "Well,  I  see 

This  fellow's  got  the  joke  on  me  !  " 

But  let  not  pride  soar  forth  too  high, 
And  gloat  on  our  immensity, 
But  think  sometimes  of  what  a  flout 
And  failure  we  had  been  without 
That  slip  of  Fate  in  making  us, 
That  extra  scoop  of  phosphorus  ! 


ioo  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


WHEN   IV E    WORKED   OUR    TAX  OUT. 


OH,  our  life   was    tough    and   tearful,  and    its  toil 

was  often  fearful, 

And  often  we  grew  faint  beneath  the  load  ; 
But  there  came  a  glad  vacation,  and  a  sweet  alle- 
viation, 

When  we  used  to  work  our  tax  out  on  the  road. 
When  we  used  to  work  our  tax   out,  then   we   felt 

the  joys  of  leisure, 

And  we  felt  no  more  the  prick  of  labor's  goad  ; 
Then  we  shared  the  golden  treasure  of  sweet  rest 

in  fullest  measure  — 
WThen  we  used  to  work  our  tax  out  on  the  road. 

There  are  sapient  seers  and  sages  who  predict,  in 

coming  ages, 

Life's  tragedy  of  labor  will  be  o'er, 
And  a  glad,  full-fledged  millennium   will   leap    on 

the  proscenium, 

And  we'll  play,  but  never  labor  any  more. 
But  we    look    not    in    the    future    for    that    happy, 

halcyon  hour 
When  we'll  throw  off  every  burden,  every  load ; 


When    We    Worked  Our  Tax   Out          101 

For   our   Eden  burst   in    flower,  and  we  dozed  in 

leisure's  bower, 
When  we  used  to  work  our  tax  out  on  the  road. 

When  we  used  to  work  our  tax  out  ( if  I  let  the 

bottom  facts  out), 

We  had  somnolent  contentment  and  repose  ; 
With  no  toil  or  work  to  cumber  us,   our  rest  was 

sweet  and  slumberous, 

And  in  deep,  delicious  dreaming  did  we  doze. 
The  drowsiness   of    languid    rest    o'er    every    man 

was  creeping, 
And    in    a    calm,    serene    content    we    all   threw 

down  our  load ; 
Careless  of  life's  wail  and  weeping,  every  blessed 

man  was  sleeping, 
When  we  used  to  work  our  tax  out  on  the  road. 


IO2  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  MILKMAN'S    TEAM 


A  YEAR,  an  age,  a  century,  seem  crowded  in  one 
night, 

When  a  poor  fellow  cannot  sleep,  but  simply  longs 
for  light ; 

I  travel  through  a  brookless  land,  along  a  black- 
ened way, 

A  weary  waste,  without  a  flower,  between  the  day 
and  day. 

Along   about    the    Fall  of   Troy  the    clock    strikes 

one,  and  then 
It  waits  till  Caesar  conquers  Gaul  before  it  strikes 

again  ; 
When    William    masters    England,    then    the    slow 

old  clock  strikes  three ; 
At    four    o'clock    Columbus'    ships    have    crossed 

the  "  ocean  sea." 

And  so  the  centuries  drip   on.     I  toss  with  weary 

heart, 
With  every  hour  of  the    night  five   hundred  years 

apart ; 


The  Milkman's  Team  103 

Becalmed  upon  a  stagnant  pool,  upon  a  waveless 
stream  — 

Until  I  hear  the  rattle  of  our  good  old  milk- 
man's team. 

The  rattle  of  that  milkman's  team  is  like  the 
bugle's  cheer, 


That  tells  beleagured  cities  that  a  friendly  host 
is  near. 

The  Ethiopian  darkness  has  as  yet  no  brighten- 
ing beam  — 

But  I  know  the  morn  is  coming  when  I  hear  that 
milkman's  team. 


He  sits   upon   his  milk-team,  half  awake  and  half 

adrowse, 
Lamenting  the  low  price  of  milk,  the  lofty  price 

of  cows ; 


104  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

He  knows  not  with  what  dignity  he  sweeps  along 

the  way,  — 
The    herald    of   a    sunrise    hope,  the   harbinger  of 

day. 

And  I've  learned  to  listen    for  him,   through   the 

darkest  night's  despair, 
For  the  glad  auroral    music   of    the    hoof-beats    of 

his  mare. 
Then    the    black-haired    night    grows    shamefaced, 

and  he  turns  his  gaze  away 
From   the    hopeful,    smiling   features   of   the   rosy 

Babe  of  Day. 

There  are  sages,  wise,  I  doubt  not,  who  believe 
the  world's  sad  plight 

Is  to  wander,  ever  deeper,  into  blacker  glooms 
of  night; 

Through  the  starless  midnight  shadows  they  can 
see  no  sunrise-gleam  — 

But  I  listen  for  the  rattle  of  the  morning  milk- 
man's team. 

Dark,  sometimes,  ah,  dark  and  heavy,  is  the  tired 

world's  despair, 
But   the   glad,  auroral  music  of  the   hoof-beats  of 

his  mare 


The  Milkman's  Team 


105 


Any    hour    may    smite    the    darkness  —  then    we'll 

see  the  heavens  astream 
With   the   sunrise  light  of  morning,  when  we  hear 

the  milkman's  team. 

Hark !   hear  ye   not   the  rat-tat  of   his  good  mare 

through  the  night  ? 
She   is  bringing  morning  with  her,  she  is  coming 

with  the  light ; 
And  the  shamefaced  night  of  terror  he  shall  turn 

his  gaze  away 
From    the    hopeful,    smiling   features    of    the    rosy 

Babe  of  Day. 


106  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE   OX-TEAM 


I  SIT  upon  my  ox-team,  calm, 

Beneath  the  lazy  sky, 
And  crawl  contented  through  the  land, 

And  let  the  world  go  by. 
The  thoughtful  ox  has  learned  to  wait, 

And  nervous  impulse  smother, 
And  ponder  long  before  he  puts 

One  foot  before  the  other. 

And  men  with  spanking  teams  pass  by, 

And  dash  upon  their  way, 
As  if  it  were  their  hope  to  find 

The  world's  end  in  a  day ; 
And  men  dash  by  in  palace  cars, 

On  me  dark  frowns  they  cast, 
As  the  lightning-driven  Present  frowns 

Upon  the  slow  old  Past. 

What  do  they  chase,   these  men  of  steam, 
Their  smoke-flags  wide  unfurled, 

Pulled  by  the  roaring  fire-fiend, 
That  shakes  the  reeling  world  ? 


The  Ox— Team  107 

What  do  ye  seek,  ye  men  of  steam, 

So  wild  and  mad  you  press  ? 
Is  this,  is  this  the  railroad  line 

That  leads  to  happiness  ? 

And  when  you've  swept  across  the  day, 

And  dashed  across  the  night, 
Is  there  some  station  through  the  hills 

Where  men  can  find  delight  ? 
Ah,  toward  the  Depot  of  Content, 

Where  no  red  signals  stream, 
I  go  by  ox-team  just  as  quick 

As  you  can  go  by  steam. 


io8  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  PRISONER 

A  MAN'S  skull  is  his  lifelong  jail; 

Behind  its  prison  bars, 
From  its  eye-windows,  doth  the  soul 

Peep  at  the  earth  and  stars ; 
But  unlike  jails  of  wood  or  stone, 
Its  prisoner  ever  dwells  alone. 

Though  through  its  front  doors  perfumed  gales 
Are  blown  from  glens  of  gladness, 

And  through  its  back  doors  music  strains 
Roll  in  in  waves  of  madness, 

And  though  he  hear  and  heed  each  tone, 

The  prisoner  still  must  dwell  alone. 

Though  past  the  windows  of  the  jail 
Sweep  scenes  of  solemn  splendor, 

And  through  the  doors  float  hymns  of  joy, 
Or  dirges  deep  and  tender, 

The  prisoner  hears  the  mirth  and  moan, 

But  in  his  jail  he  dwells  alone. 

No  lover  ever  knows  the  soul 
He  loves  in  all  its  sweetness  ; 


The  Prisoner  109 


The  fullest  love,  however  strong, 
Is  marred  by  incompleteness  ; 
No  heart  is  ever  fully  known, 
The  prisoner  ever  dwells  alone. 


no  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  HILL   ABOVE    THE   TOWN 


UPON  a  high  hill,  looking  down 

Upon  the  towers  of  a  town, 

A  barefoot  boy  stood  strong  and  fair, 

The  breezes  playing  with  his  hair, 

And  gazed  upon  the  burnished  spires, 

All  glorified  by  sunset  fires, 

And  for  the  first  time  saw  the  gleams 

Of  this  great  city  of  his  dreams. 

For  many  days,  'neath  sun  and  star, 
The  sturdy  lad  had  journeyed  far. 
In  winding  ways,  in  meadows  sweet, 
Where  dripping  dews  baptized  his  feet 
O'er  hillsides,  where  the  sterile  sod 
Bloomed  Eden-like  with  goldenrod, 
And  where  the  gladdening  river  flows  — 
A  poem  on  a  page  of  prose  — 
Through  bowldered  hills  and  uplands  bare, 
Where  silence  reigns  in  earth  and  air. 

To  tired  mortals  standing  near 
The  city's  roar  is  harsh  to  hear; 


The  Hill  Above  the  Town  1 1 1 

But  when  it  lifts  and  sweeps  away, 
And  settles,  like  a  music  spray, 
It  grows  to  anthems  in  the  air, 
And  falls  in  magic  everywhere. 
The  young  boy  hears  it  far  away, 
Within  his  native  fields  at  play ; 
And  the  strange  magic  of  the  strain 

Falls  like  a  madness  on  his  heart, 
Burns  like  a  fever  in  his  brain,  — 

He  says,  "  I  must  depart." 
He  hears  it  in  the  western  wind, 
A  weird,  strange  music,  undefined  ; 
And  in  the  sheltered  meadow  nooks 
It  mingles  with  the  song  of  brooks, 
The  low  of  herds,  the  hum  of  bees, 
The  rustling  of  the  maple-trees. 

O'er  woodland  paths  and  sheltered  dells 
That  omnipresent  music  swells ; 
Then  surges  up  within  his  breast 
The  tumult  of  his  first  unrest. 
He  hears  it,  and  forgets  to  prize 
The  sweetness  in  his  mother's  eyes ; 
The  sterner  but  benignant  grace 
That  rests  upon  his  father's  face. 
He  hears  that  music  night  and  morn, 

And  sweeter,  stronger,  does  it  grow ; 
He  hears  it  call  him  on  and  on, 


1 1 2  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

He  cannot  choose  but  go  ! 
He  leaves  his  boyhood's  sheltered  nest, 
Nor  henceforth  knows  the  name  of  rest. 

And  so  our  barefoot  boy  was  there, 
Drawn  by  that  music  in  the  air; 
And  bravely  stood  he  looking  down 
Upon  the  towers  of  the  town. 

And  there  were  men  within  that  town 

Of  earth-encompassing  renown ; 

But  out  beyond  the  wooded  crest 

That  hemmed  his  childhood  like  a  nest, 

Beyond  that  clipped  horizon's  zone, 

The  barefoot's  name  had  never  flown. 

And  poverty  within  that  town 

Kept  many  a  fate-cursed  mortal  down  ; 

But  nowhere  in  its  streets  might  be 

A  man  or  child  as  poor  as  he. 

But  still  he  stood  above  the  town, 
In  hopeful  prescience  gazing  down ; 

A  strong  audacity  of  heart 
Sustained  him,  and  he  feared  no  foe  — 

And  part  was  ignorance,  and  part 
A  wisdom  higher  than  we  know. 
And  so  he  dared,  with  fearless  mien, 
To  stand  and  front  the  world,  serene. 


The  Hill  Above  the  Town  113 

"There's  nothing  in  that  town,"  said  he, 
"There's  nothing  there  too  great  for  me." 
He  bravely  smiled,  and  started  down  ; 

The  light  of  hope  was  in  his  eye. 
"  I'll  be  the  mayor  of  that  town," 

Said  he,  "before  I  die." 


1 1 4  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  HOME  IN    THE   GALLEY 

I  OWN  my  little  home  up  here  among  the  moun- 
tains hid ; 

The  sky  spreads  down  about  it  like  a  star-strewn 
coverlid. 

No    noise    that   thunders    through    the    world,   and 

racks  the  souls  of  men 
Can  desecrate  the  silence  of  my  mountain-guarded 

glen. 

But  here  within   the   valley,   in   its  deep   seclusion 

curled, 
I   behold  the    mighty  pageant  of   the   wonders   of 

the  world. 

Here  the  brooks  from  down  the  mountains  through 

the  verdured  valleys  flee, 
Drawn    by  their    eternal    madness    to    be    mingled 

with  the  sea, 

As  the  soul  of  man  in  exile  daily  struggles  in  its 

flight 
Toward  the  far-off  central  ocean  of  the  shoreless 

Infinite. 


The  Home  in  the    Valley  115 

Here  tall  cities  of  enchantment,  like  the  cities  of 
the  blest, 

Sunset  capitals  of  cloudland,  rise  within  the  crim- 
son west. 

Here  the  miracle  of  morning,  sunrise-crowned  and 

dew-impearled, 
In  its  old  eternal  newness   daily  breaks  upon  the 

world. 

Here  the  pomp  of  all  the  seasons  marches  yearly 

through  the  glen, 
Bringing  gifts  of  snow  and  flowers,  and  the  fruits 

of  earth  to  men. 

I  am  bosomed   deep  in  beauty  ;  like  the  dewdrop 

in  the  rose, 
Let  me  fade  into  the  silence  of  the  fragrant  night's 

repose. 

Let  me  live  here  in  the  valley,  in  its  deep  seclu- 
sion curled, 

And  behold  the  mighty  pageant  of  the  wonders 
of  the  world. 

Restless  are  the  feet  that  wander,  restless  are  the 

hearts  that  roam ; 
Here  God  shows  me  all  his  glories  :   let  me  stay 

and  rest  aL  home. 


DON'T  hate  your  neighbor  if  his  creed 

With  your  own  doctrine  fails  to  fit ; 

The  chances  that  you  both  are  wrong, 

You  know,  are  well-nigh  infinite. 

Don't  fancy,  mid  a  million  worlds 

That  fill  the  silent  dome  of  night, 

The  gleams  of  all  pure  truth  converge 

Within  the  focus  of  your  sight ; 

For  this,  my  friend,  is  not  the  work  for  you  : 

So  leave  all  this  for  smaller  men  to  do. 


Don't  hate  men  when  their  hands  are  hard, 
And  patches  make  their  garments  whole  ; 
A  man  whose  clothes  are  spick  and  span 
May  wear  big  patches  on  his  soul. 
Don't  hate  a  man  because  his  coat 
Does  not  conform  to  fashion's  art ; 
A  man  may  wear  a  full-dress  suit, 
And  have  a  ragamuffin  heart. 
This,  my  good  friend,  is  not  the  work  for  you ; 
So  leave  all  this  for  smaller  men  to  do. 
116 


Work  for  Small  Men  1 1 7 

Hate  not  the  men  of  narrow  scope, 

Of  senses  dull,  whose  brows  recede, 

Whos^  hearts  are  embryos;  for  you  spring, 

My  dainty  friend,  from  just  this  breed. 

Be  sure  the  years  will  lift  them  up  ; 

They'll  toil  beneath  the  patient  sky, 

And  through  the  vista  of  long  days 

Will  all  come  forward  by  and  by. 

Hate  not  these  men ;  this  is  no  work  for  you : 

So  leave  all  this  for  smaller  men  to  do. 

Despise  not  any  man  that  lives, 

Alien  or.  neighbor,  near  or  far ; 

Go  out  beneath  the  scornful  stars, 

And  see  how  very  small  you  are. 

The  world  is  large,   and   space  is  high 

That  sweeps  around  our  little  ken ; 

But  there's  no  space  or  time  to  spare 

In  which  to  hate  our  fellow-men. 

And  this,  my  friend,   is   not  the   work  for  you; 

Then   leave  all  this  for  smaller  men  to  do. 


u8  M'hiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  BUSTER. 

His  name  was  Alexander  Bartholomew  McKay  ; 
That  was  his   "  really    truly "  name  the  youngster 

used  to  say. 
It  was  a  name  we  hoped  some  day  to  which  he'd 

lend  a  lustre ; 

But  then  his  name  for  every  day  was  simply  this,  — 
The  Buster. 

The  Buster  was  a  cyclone  dressed  in  a  round- 
about, 

A  whirlwind  dressed  in  pantalettes,  full  steam, 
and  just  let  out. 

And  wheresoe'er  the  Buster  blew  did  ruin  always 
cluster ; 

Upon  the  chaos  that  he  made  we'd  gaze  and  sigh, 
"The  Buster!" 


A    track    of    devastation    always    followed    in    his 

wake  ; 
For  everything  the  Buster  touched  the   Buster    he 

would  break. 


The  Buster  119 

It   took  all  Christian    charity   our    outraged    souls 

could  muster 

To  live  in  the  same  edifice  where  domiciled 
The  Buster. 

All  peace   of  mind  departed   when    he   entered   at 

the  door, 
For  he  sounded  like  a  whirlwind  rattling   through 

a  china  store ; 
And  like  a  charge  of  light  dragoons,  when  led  by 

General  Custer, 
He  came  down  on  our  bric-a-brac,  and  smashed  it 

all  — 

The  Buster! 

He'd  hang  the  chairs  upon  the  wall,  the   pictures 
on  the  floor, 

And  hang  the  poodle   upside  down  upon  the    cel- 
lar door; 

And    slyly    dress   the   baby   up   in  gran'pa's    linen 
duster, 

And    hitch    the  goat  in   Ntll's  boudoir,   and  leave 
him  there  — 

The  Buster  ! 

And  so  throughout  the    neighborhood   the  people 

could  not  stay, 
In    proportion    as   he    flourished    did    the    people 

move  away  ; 


120  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  sad  departing  caravans  along  the  ways  would 
cluster, 

Driven  from  their  homes  and  firesides  by  the  on- 
slaught of 

The   Buster. 

And  no  one  asked  the  Buster's  health,  for  all 
men  understood 

The  Buster's  chronic  state  of  health  was  danger- 
ously good ; 

But  one  day  did  his  cheek  grow  pale,  his  eye  it 
lost  its  lustre, 

And  we  all  gathered   round  his  crib    to    see  what 

ailed 

The  Buster. 

And  when  the  fever  reached  his  brain  he  wan- 
dered in  his  mind, 

And  played  imaginary  pranks,  the  same  old  reck- 
less kind. 

He  sang  his  little  rattling  songs  while  all  about 
did  cluster  ; 

They  cheered  his  long  way  through  the  dark,  the 
long  way  of 

The  Buster. 

For  he  had  started  on  that  way  —  the  mists  grew 
cold  and  colder  — 


The  Buster  121 

And  no    strong  man,  no  hero    soul,  e'er   marched 

upon  it  bolder ; 
He'd  heard  the  call  which  summons  all  to  Fate's 

eternal  muster, 

And  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips  he  answered  back  — 
The  Buster. 

And  so  we  watched  the  Buster,  standing  by  with 

bated  breath, 
As    with    sweet    laughter  in    his   eyes    he    neared 

the  gates  of  death  ; 
And  the    white    mists    of   that  dim    shore    did    alJ 

about  him  cluster ; 
And    as    he    vanished    in    the    mist    we    knew    we 

loved 

The  Buster. 

We  held  his  hand  that  we  had  led  through  many 

a  devious  track, 
And  wished  that  from  the  cold,  cold  fog  that  we 

might  lead  him  back  ; 
And  when  he  said  "  Doo-by  "  to  us  we  round  his 

crib  did  cluster, 
And  thought  how  much  we  loved  our  boy — how 

good  he  was  — 

The  Buster. 


122  W'hiffs  from    IV ihl  Meadows 


DEACON  PETT1GREWS  UNFORTUNATE  PRAYER. 


I'VE  been  the  most  successful   tramp  this  country 

ever  see ; 
There  ain't    no  tramp   thet    soshully    stood    higher 

up  than  me. 
Of    all    the    tramps    of  this    hull    Ian'    I    wuz    the 

special  pet, 
An'    I    graced    the    highest    sukkles    of    our    most 

exclusive  set. 

I  allus  got  enough  to  chew,  an'  worked  my  game 

so  shrewd, 
An'  got  so  many  duds  to  wear,  that  I  wuz  called 

The  Dude; 
An'    Chris'mus    time    especially     I      bagged      my 

highes'  game, 
An'  got  new  wardrobes   for   my    back,  new    lustre 

for  my  fame. 

My  specialty  wuz  deacons,  an'  a  deacon,  without 
doubt, 

If  you  know  jest  how  to  fetch  him,  will  tremen- 
dously pan  out ; 


Deacon  P^ttigrew^s   Unfortunate  Prayer      123 

An'  I  uster  work   him    this  way :  I    would   go    to 

him,  you  see, 
Sayin',  "  I'm  a  poor  ol'  sinner,  Deacon  ;  won't  you 

pray  for  me  ?  " 
An'  thet  would    allus    fetch  him  •  he    would    kneel 

right  down  an'  pray 


That  this  poor  penitent  might  have  his   foul    sins 

took  away. 
An'  I  would   sob   an'    shout,  "  Amen ! "    an'   w'en 

he'd  closed  his  prayer 
I'd  say  I  felt  my  sins  wuz  gone,  my  soul  in  good 

repair. 


124  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

This  tickled  him  perdigiously.     He'd   feed  me  up 

with  pie, 
An'  kill  the  fatted    turkey,  an'  I'd  stay   there   an' 

live  high, 
An'  talk  about  how  good  I  felt  to  lose  my  weight 

of  sin, 
An'  loudly    shout    "  Hosannah  !  "    while    I    tucked 

the  vittles  in. 

Then  I'd  depart,  an'  leave  him  feelin'  wholly  sanc- 
tified, 

An  ulster  on  my  outer  man,  a  puddin'  warm  in- 
side ; 

But  soon  my  conscience  'ud  bob  up,  I'd  feel  new 
weight  of  sin  — 

Then  I'd  seek  another  deacon,  jest  to  pray  for 
me  ag'in. 

But  my  Chris'mus  business  this   year  is  a   failure 

fair  an'  square, 
Because  of  Deacon   Pettigrew's   confounded   blun- 

derin'  prayer. 
I  toP  him,  jest  like  all   the  rest,  thet  I    wuz   foul 

with  sin, 
An'  would  he   kindly   pray  for   me  —  an'  he  —  he 

waded  in. 

He  started  in,  an'  says,  "O  Lord," — an'  I  began 
to  sob  — 


Deacon  Pettigrew's   Unfortunate  Prayer      125 

"O  Lord,  I  do  beseech  Thee,  give  this  wretched 
tramp  a  job  ; 

0  Thou  that    showest   mercy   to   the   infidel    and 

Turk, 

Give  this  poor  vagabond,   I  pray,  a  steady  job  of 
work." 

1  tell  ye  I    wuz    frightened,  an'  I    never    wuz    so 

scat. 
I  wuz  'feared  the  Lord  would  hear  him,  an'  I  up 

an'  grabbed  my  hat, 
An'  I  scooted  off  like  lightnin' ;  I  wuz   frightened 

half  to  death, 
An'    run    four    miles    afore    I    dared    to    stop    an' 

ketch  my  breath. 

An'  so    my    Chris'mus    business    hez    been    sp'ilt 

beyond  repair  ; 
Though  my   sins   are    black  as   ever  I    can't    trust 

no  deacon's  prayer. 
Life's  corn  hez   all   been    shelled   for   me ;  there's 

nothin'  left  but  cob, 
An'  I've  lost  my  faith  in  deacons,  an'    I'm    'fraid 

I'll  git  a  job. 


126  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


IS  LITTLE  BOB   TUCKED  IN? 


"  I'VE  gotter  go,"  she  said,  "  an'  see 

If  little  Bob's  tucked  in; 
He'll  git  his  death  if  he's  uncovered 

In  this  col'   storm  an'  win'." 
"Oh,  little  Bob's  all  right,"  said  I, 

"  You've  bin  to  tuck  him  in 
Four  times  this  evenin',  an'  I  wouldn' 

Run  'way  up-stairs  ag'in." 
But  Cynthy'd  worry,  fret,  an'  stew, 

An'  raise  a  dreffle  din  ; 
"W'y,   I  mus'  go  ag'in,"  says  she, 

"An'  see  if  Bob's  tucked  in." 

"  W'y,  Cynthy,  jest  set  down,"  I  said, 

"An'  git  some  good  er  life. 
A  feller  wants  a  chance  to  talk 

Some  evenin's  with  his  wife." 
Then  she  would  take  her  knittin'  out, 

Or  work  upon  her  spread, 
An'  make  b'lieve  lissen,  though  she  didn' 

Hear  quarter  w'at  I  said. 
She  wouldn'  much  more  than  git  set  down 


Is  Little  Bob  Tucked  In?  127 

Than  jump  right  up  ag'in, 
An'  say,  "I  mus'  run  up  an'  see 
If  little  Bob's  tucked  in." 


Young  Bob  was  allus  on  the  jump, 

An'  filled  the  house  with  din, 
An'  kicked  his  quilts  off  ev'ry  night 

Fast  as  she  tucked  him  in. 
His  laigs  they  went  so  fast  all  day, 

As  long  as  it  was  light, 
An'  got  up  speed  so  they  couldn'  stop, 

An'  kep'  a-goin'  all  night. 
So  Cynthy'd  keep  a-gittin'  up 

An'  gittin'  up  ag'in  ; 
"  I've  gotter  look  an'  see,"  says  she, 

"  If  little  Bob's  tucked  in." 


She  stood  above  the  casket  there, 

She  bent  to  kiss  his  face, 
To  pat  a  stragglin'  curl  of  hair, 

Or  fix  a  bit  of  lace. 
Her  heart  was  breakin'  with  the  thought 

That  Bob,  so  round  an'  fat, 
So  full  of  pranks  an'  fun,  should  sleep 

Within  a  crib  like  that ; 
But  still  she'd  fix  his  little  robe, 

An'  then  come  back  ag'in, 


128  Whiffs  from    U'ild  Meadows 

An'  take  a  long,  last  look,  an'  see 
Her  little  Bob  tucked  in. 

That  night  a  storm  er  snow  came  on, 

An'  how  the  winds  did  rave  ! 
The  snow  fell,  like  a  coverlid, 

On  little  Bob's  new  grave. 
"I'm  glad  it  snows,"  his  mother  said, 

"  It  looked  so  hard  an'  bare, 
So  hard,  so  cruel,  an'  so  bleak, 

I  cried  to  leave  him  there. 
But  God  has  sent  the  blessed  snow, 

I  think — an'  'tis  no  sin  — 
That  he  has  sent  his  snow  to  see 

That  little  Bob's  tucked  in." 


The  Good  Old  Times  129 


THE   GOOD   OLD   TIMES 

WHAT  easy  times  our  fathers  had  !     They  lived   a 

natural   way  ; 
To  earn  a  half   a  dollar  then   they  had   the  whole 

long  day. 
Some   fourteen  hours  did    they  have    this  meagre 

sum  to  win, 
The    whole,    long   blessed    day   to    earn    a    half   a 

dollar   in. 

How  light  their  lot  compared  with  ours !     We  have 

to  spurt  and  spin, 
We  who  are  granted  but  six  hours  to  earn  twelve 

dollars   in. 
Two  hundred  dollars   in  a  year  was   all  they  had 

to   earn, 
But  we  must   earn  five   thousand  —  will  those  old 

days   ne'er  return  ? 

They   had    twelve    months    to     earn    it,    fourteen 

hours   to   the   day ; 
But  we  have   to  have  vacations,  which  steals  half 

our  time  away. 


130  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

We've  only  six  hours  in  the  day,  and  eight  months 

in  the  year, 
In  which   to   earn   five    thousand  —  ah,   too   great 

the  strain,  I  fear ! 

They  had  so  long  to  earn  so  little ;  but  our  hard 
life  is  such 

That  we  have  little  time  to  work  in  order  to  earn 
much. 

How  rich  our  fathers  were  —  in  time  —  how  prodi- 
gal and  rash ! 

What  vast  amounts  of  time  they  gave  for  small 
amounts  of  cash. 

And  how  we  sigh  for  those  old  days  of  moder- 
ate events, 

When  one  had  fourteen  hours  in  which  to  earn 
his  fifty  cents  ; 

But  now  we  work  like  galley  slaves,  and  wreck 
and  waste  our  powers 

For  fifty  cents  in  sixty  seconds,  —  ah,  what  a  life 
is  ours ! 


The   Vision  that  Recedes  131 


THE   VISION    THAT  RECEDhS 


FORWARD,  on  the  same  old  journey,  let  us  fol- 
low where  she  leads, 

Let  us  chase  the  beckoning  glory  of  the  Vision 
that  Recedes. 

Still  abides  the  same  old  magic  in  the  waving 
of  her  hand, 

Motioning  tow'rd  higher  regions  of  her  misty  table- 
land ; 

Still  abides  the  same  old   purpose   still  to  follow 

and  draw  nigh 
To   the   fulness   of    the   glory  of    the   promise   in 

her  eye. 

Down  the  vista  of  long  valleys,  through  the  brook- 
melodious  meads, 

Up  the  thunder-blasted  mountains,  floats  the  Vision 
that  Recedes. 

Onward  through  the  tumbled  gorges,  onward  till 
the  quest  is  done. 

See !  she  beckons  to  new  empires  tow'rd  the  set- 
ting of  tli2  sun. 


I32 


Whiffs  from    }\rihl  Meadows 


See !  her  robes  float  in  the  distance,  borne  upon 
the  onward  breeze, 

Red  with  kisses  of  the  sunset,  white  with  blanch- 
ing of  the  seas. 


See!  she  beckons.  We  are  coming!  We  will  fol- 
low where  she  leads ; 

For  we  still  believe  the  promise  of  the  Vision 
that  Recedes. 


The  Vision  that  Recedes  133 

We  will  follow  where  she  leads  us,  through  the 
wild  and  up  the  slope, 

Through  the  many  tangled  valleys  to  the  table- 
land of  hope. 

Through  the   many  tangled  valleys   we  will  chase 

the  Vision  fair, 
Till   we   see   the    golden    sunset  mingled  with    her 

floating  hair. 

Yonder,  there,  beyond  the  chasm,  see  her  stand- 
ing on  the  crest 

Of  that  twilight-girdled  mountain  at  the  threshold 
of  the  west. 

We  will  follow  without  resting,  we  will  follow  and 

draw  nigh 
To   the    fulness    of   the    glory   of    the    promise    in 

her  eye. 

There   are  higher  ranges  yonder,    and  she  plumes 

her  wings  for  flight 
Tow'rd  those  visionary  mountains   on   the  borders 

of  the  night. 

Tow'rd    those    visionary   mountains    let    us   follow 

where  she  leads, 
Let  us  chase   the    beckoning  glory  of   the    Vision 

that  Recedes. 


134  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


UNCLE  JED'S  JOURNEY 


I    NEVER    grouted,    never    fussed,    but    lived    here 

calm   an'   still  ; 
For  twenty  year  I   lived  here  on  the    hill    in    Po- 

kumville. 
"Don't  live  here  like   a  snail,"   said  Jim,  "within 

yer  snail-shell  curled  ; 
I'll  pay  yer  fare  to  go  out  West,   an'  let  yer  see 

the  world." 

An'  so  I  got  on  board  the  train,   an'  whirled  off 

like  a  breeze  ; 
But    all    I    see    upon   the    trip  wuz   dirt    an'  grass 

an'  trees. 
See  water,   stones,   an'  sich-like  things ;  sometimes 

a  brook  an'  hill. 
Sez    I    to    Jim,    "All    these    ere    things    I    see    in 

Pokumville." 

We  stopped  to  see  Niagara  Falls,  thet  makes  so 

much  loud  talk, 
An'  we  see  a  mess  er  water  kinder  tumblin'  from 

a  rock. 


Uncle  Jed 's  Journey  135 

"  If  you  spill   water  from  a  spoon,"  sez   I  to  Jim, 

sez  I, 
"Tis  'zackly  the    same    principul "  —  an'   Jim    he 

couldn'  deny. 

An'  we   crossed  the   Rocky   Mountains,    Jim   said, 

"  I  call  this  grand." 
"They're    nothin',"    sez    I,    "but    great    hunks    of 

rock  an'  dirt  an'   sand." 
An'  we  come  to  the   Pacific,  an'  it  made  Jim  look 

perfound ; 
But    I    sez,  "  I    don't  see   nothin'   but    some  water 

sloshin'  round." 

An'  we  went  to  sev'rul   cities  —  there  wuz  nothin' 

there  to  see 
But   jest   er  mess  er  houses,    an'  some   folks  like 

you  an'  me. 
An'   we    come    into    Chicago.       Sez    Jim,    "  How's 

this  for  high  ?  " 
Sez  I,  "  It's  jest  like   Pokumville  —  the    same    ol 

thing,"  sez  I. 


136  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE   ORIGIN   OF  SIN 


HE  talked  about  the  origin 

Of  sin  ; 

But  present  sin,  I  must  confess, 
He  never  tried  to  render  less, 
But  used  to  add,  so  people  talk, 
His  share  unto  the  general  stock  — 
But  grieved  about  the  origin 

Of  sin. 

He  mourned  about  the  origin 

Of  sin ; 

But  never  struggled  very  long 
To  rout  contemporaneous  wrong, 
And  never  lost  his  sleep,  they  say, 
About  the  evils  of  to-day  — 
But  wept  about  the  origin 

Of  sin. 

He  sighed  about  the  origin 

Of  sin ; 

But  showed  no  fear  you  could  detect 
About  its  ultimate  effect ; 


The  Origin  of  Sin  137 

He  deemed  it  best  to  use  no  force, 
But  let  it  run  its  natural  course  — 
But  moaned  about  the  origin 
Of  sin. 


138  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  SOULS  SPRING   CLEANING 


YES,  clean  yer  house,  an'  clean  yer  shed, 

An'  clean  yer  bam  in  ev'ry  part ; 
But  brush  the  cobwebs  from  yer  head, 

An'  sweep  the  snow-bank  from  yer  heart. 
Yes'  w'en  spring  cleanin'  comes  aroun' 

Bring  forth  the  duster  an'  the  broom, 
But  rake  yer  fogy  notions  down, 

An'  sweep  yer  dusty  soul  of  gloom. 

Sweep  oP  idees  out  with  the  dust, 

An'  dress  yer  soul  in  newer  style  ; 
Scrape  from  yer  min'  its  wornout  crust, 

An'  dump  it  in  the  rubbish  pile. 
Sweep  out  the  hates  that  burn  an'  smart, 

Bring  in  new  loves  serene  an'  pure, 
Aroun'  the  herthstone  of  the  heart 

Place  modern  styles  of  furniture. 

Clean  out  yer  morril  cubby-holes, 

Sweep  out  the  dirt,  scrape  off  the  scum  ; 

'Tis  cleanin'  time  for  healthy  souls  — 
Git  up  an'  dust !     The  spring  hez  come  ! 


The  SouVs  Spring  Cleaning  139 

Clean  out  the  corners  of  the  brain, 

Bear  down  with  scrubbin'-brush  an'  soap, 

An'  dump  oF  Fear  into  the  rain, 
An'  dust  a  cozy  chair  for  Hope. 

Clean  out  the  brain's  deep  rubbish-hole, 

Soak  ev'ry  cranny,  great  an'  small, 
An'  in  the  front  room  of  the  soul 

Hang  pootier  picturs  on  the  wall. 
Scrub  up  the  winders  of  the  mind, 

Clean  up,  an'  let  the  spring  begin  ; 
Swing  open  wide  the  dusty  blind, 

An'  let  the  April  sunshine  in. 

Plant  flowers  in  the  soul's  front  yard, 

Set  out  new  shade  an'  blossom  trees, 
An'  let  the  soul  once  froze  an'  hard 

Sprout  crocuses  of  new  idees. 
Yes,  clean  yer  house,  an'  clean  yer  shed, 

An'  clean  yer  barn  in  ev'ry  part ; 
But  brush  the  cobwebs  from  yer  head, 

An'  sweep  the  snow-banks  from  yer  heart ! 


1 40  Whiffs  from    IVild  Meadows 


THE    YOUNG   MUSICIAN 

JIM  warn't  no  good  to  fish  and  shoot, 

But  only  jest  to  toot  an'   toot. 

He  couldn'  play  tag,  an'  couldn'  play  ball  ; 

He  jest  could  toot,  an'  that  wuz  all. 

He  used  to  toot  upon  the  fife, 

Till  we  grew  tired  of  our  life. 

For  hours  he  would  set  an'  set, 

An'  toot  upon  an  ol'  cornet, 

Upon  a  bugle,  fife,  or  floot,  — 

His  life  wuz  one  etarnal  toot 


Wen  he  came  in,  the  rooms  grew  bare ; 

He'd  toot,  an'  solitude  wuz  there. 

Out  to  the  barn  we  all  'ud  fly, 

An'  hanker  for  a  chance  to  die.  — 

All  'cept  his  little  sister  Flo, 

An'  she  warn't  big  enough  to  know. 

She  uster  stay  for  half  a  day, 

An'  lissen  to  the  terror  play; 

But  she  warn't  very  hard  to  suit. 

She  said,  "  Me  'ike  to  hear  oo  toot." 


The   Young  Musician  141 

But  Jim  he  tooted  day  by  day, 

Until  the  neighbors  moved  away, 

Until  the  little  trustful  Flo 

Said,   "  Jim,  w'at  make  e  neighbors  go  ? " 

Jim  choked  a  sob,  an'  said,  "  They  say 

Thet  I   have  tooted  'em  away. 

I  can't  do  nothin'  that'll  soot ; 

I'm  good  for  nothin'  but  to  toot." 

"  If  the  whole  worl'  should  go,"  said  Flo, 

"  Oo  toot  for  me ;  we'll  'et  'em  go." 

An'  w'en  Jim  grew  to  quite  a  lad, 

An'  moved  away,  we  all  wuz  glad, 

An'  every  one  wuz  filled  with  glee,  — 

A  sorter  gen'l  jubilee. 

An'  there  wuz  some  purposed,  they  say, 

To  hev  a  firework  display. 

"  You're  all  great,  big,  mean  brutes,"  said  Flo, 

"  You're  great,  big  brutes  to  treat  him  so. 

Shoot  up  your  rockets  in  the  sky, 

But  my  Jim's  fame'll  shoot  ez  high  !  " 

Now  w'en  there's  music  in  a  man, 
Bimeby  the  worl'  will  un'erstan' ; 
So  Jim,  dressed  in  a  bobtail  soot, 
Brought  out  the  worl'  to  hear  him  toot. 
They  said  heaven's  music  filled  his  fife, 
An  anthem  frum  the  deeps  er  life  ; 


142  Whijfs  from    Wild  Meadows 

Their  souls  wuz  filled  an'  overawed, 
Jest  like  w'en  Moses  talked  'ith  God. 
An'  this  young  ornery  tooter  Jim, 
They  said,  played  like  a  seraphim. 

He'd  toot.     They  heerd  the  battle  boom 

Of  armies  marchin'  to  their  doom ; 

An'  then  they'd  hear  the  thunderous  knocks 

Of  wreck-strewn  oceans  on  the  rocks ; 

An'  then  he'd  toot,  an'  all  wuz  dumb 

Ez  if  eternity  had  come,  — 

So  still  thet  if  you  dropped  a  pin 

'Twould  sound  ez  if  the  earth  caved  in ; 

Then  all  the  stars  'ud  sing  for  joy, 

Like  w'en  oP  Adam  wuz  a  boy. 

He'd  toot  ag'in  —  an  awful  clash, 

Ez  if  the  nations  went  to  smash, 

As  if  within  the  upper  air 

The  angels  fit  with  devils  there  ; 

An'  then  a  strain  of  wiP  delight  — 

They  knowed  the  angels  won  the  fight ; 

They  knowed  no  soul  wuz  left  alone, 

An'  God  wuz  still  upon  his  throne  ! 

An'  jest  to  think  that  this  wuz  ///;;/, 

Thet  everlastin'  tooter,  Jim  ! 

They  went  an'  tol'  the  news  to  Flo  ; 

She  simply  said,  "  I  tol'  yer  so  !  " 


Uncle  Seth  on  Kings  143 


UNCLE  SETH  ON  KINGS 


THEM   kings  in   Europe  over  there  are  settin'  on 

their  thrones, 
Their  thrones  built  on  the  necks  of  men  for  their 

foundation-stones ; 
But  trod-on  men,  I'm  glad  to  say,  have  learned  to 

squirm  an'  creep, 
They're   wigglin'  ;    soon   you'll    see   them   thrones 

come  tumblin'  in  a  heap. 

"  Support    my   soldiers,"    says    them    kings,    "  my 

men  who  shoot  an'  hack ;  " 
Till  now  each  peasant  carries   roun'   a  soldier  on 

his  back. 
But  that  poor  peasant's  growin'  wise;   there's  fire 

in  his  blood. 
Just  wait  a  bit ;  you'll  see  him  dump  that  soldier 

in  the  mud. 

"  There's  men  across  that  bound'ry  line  that  you 

must  go  an'  kill ; 
Go  shoot  'em  for  us,"  says  them  kings,  "go  stab 

'em ;  'tis  our  will." 


144 


Whiffs  from    \ViId  Meadows 


"  Wall,    kings,"  bimeby  them    men   will    say,    "  we 

don't  observe  no  sign 
Thet    men    are    vipers    to    be    killed    across    that 

boundary  line. 

"  If  you  want  butchers  to  kill   beeves,  a  bargain 
might  be    made  ; 


If   you    want    butchers    to    kill    men,   w'y,   that    ar 

ain't  our  trade. 
If  you  want  blood  by  hogsheadsful,  don't  seek  it 

at  our  store  ; 
For   we    ain't   killin'    feller-men    an'    brothers    any 

more." 

Wall,  kings,   this  ain't  the   kin'  er  talk  to  soothe 
a  royal  ear, 


Uncle  Seth  on  Kings  145 

But  jest  erbout  the  kin'  er  stuff  thet  you  hev  got 

ter  hear ; 
For  we've   about    made   up  our    minds  to  lay  you 

on  the  shelf, 
For  each  man  now  hez  come  to  know  thet  he's 

a  king  himself. 

The  kin'  er  king  that  Europe  wants  won't  wear 
no  jewel  crown. 

An'  he  is  coinin'  w'en  your  thrones  hev  all  been 
rattled  down. 

He'll  wear  a  hat  like  other  men,  an'  set  on  a 
plain  chair ; 

But  he  will  be  a  king  er  men,  an'  rule  'em  every- 
where. 

Not  w'at  he    wears    outside    his    head  will   be   his 

kingly  pride  ; 
Not  w'at  he  wears  outside  his  head,  but  w'at  he 

wears  inside. 
He'll  want  no  throne ;  a  king  er  men  can  allus 

rule  his  own 
If  he  sets  upon  a  nail-kaig,  jest  as  well  as  on  a 

throne. 

He'll  say,   this   king  that's   comin',  to  his  soldiers 

old  an'  new, 
"  Break  ranks,  my  frien's ;  disband ;  go  home ; 

ain't  no  more  work  for  you. 


146  Whiffs  fr^m    Wild  Meadows 

I    legalize    no    more    the    art    of    takin'    people's 

lives. 
Your   job    hez    gone ;    break    ranks ;    disband ;    go 

home  an'  see  your  wives, 

"An'    beat    your    sword-blades    into    scythes.      Go 

home  an1  cut  your  grain  ; 
Make  green   with    corn    an'  w'ite    with  wheat    the 

blood-red  battle  plain. 
Though  mowin'  oats  an'  mowin'  grass  is  tiresome 

work,  but  then, 
'Tis     more    respectable    an'    clean     than     mowin' 

feller-men." 

This  is  the    kin'  er  king   we    want ;    the  oF    style 

breed  of  kings, 
W'y,    they   hev    bungled    long    enough,    an'    made 

a  botch  of  things. 
This  king  is  comin'   by  an'   by,  an'    let  the    roun' 

sky  ring, 
"  Hip,   hip,  hooray  !    hip,   hip,  hooray  !     God  save, 

God  save  the  king ! " 


The  Misrepresentation  of  Erastus  Poog      147 


THE  MISREPRESENTATION  OF  ERASTUS 
POOG 


THE  interviewer  feller  from  the  Pokumville  Gazette 

Come  down  las'  year  to  see  me,  an'  I  hain't  forgot 
it  yet ; 

An'  he  poked  right  in  to  see  me,  with  his  smooth 
an'  oily  face, 

An'  asked  for  my  opinyins  on  the  Wilson  Dog- 
Fight  Case. 

He  said  he  wished  to  git  the  news  of  repersen- 
tertive  men, 

Of  the  intellechul  leaders  an'  the  soshul  upper 
ten  ; 

Of  men  of  broad  capasserty  an'  mental  pedigree, 
An'  intellechul  calibre  —  an'  so  he  come  to  me. 

So  I  sut  my  intellechuals  immejitly  to  work; 
'Tain't  in   keepin'  with  my  natur'   any  mental   job 

to  shirk. 
I'm   proud    to    say  thet   work  like  this   I   do  with 

ease  and  grace  — 
So  I  expounded    unto    him  the  Wilson   Dog-Fight 

Case. 


148 


Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


I  give  er  explernation  thet  wuz  pretty  middlirT  neat, 
An'  worked  the  case  out  p'int  by  p'int,   an'  made 

the  job  complete  ; 
An'  the  reporter  said  to  me,  jest  'fore  he  left  my 

place, 
"  You've    gi'n    the    best    sy-nopsis    of    the    Wilson 

Dog-Fight  Case. 


ygp. 

Nex'  day  but  one  they  published  what  they  called 
AN    INTERVIEW 

WITH    THE    INTELLECHUL    LEADER    OF    OL?   DEESTRIC' 
NUMBER    TWO. 

ERASTUS    POOG'S    OPINYINS, 

TOL'   WITH    ELERKUNCE   AN'    GRACE,   OF    THE    FAMOUS 
CONTERVERSY   OF   THE   WILSON   DOG-FIGHT   CASE. 


The  Misrepresentation  of  Erastus  Poog      149 

But,  O  Good  Lord  !  O   Mercy !     It  made  me  bile 

to  see 

How  wilfully  the  lying  sheet  misrepersented  me  ; 
For   "  Mr.    Poog,"   the    paper    said,    "  in    his    last 

summin'  up, 
Inclines  to  give  the  pref'rence  to   Cornelius  Doo- 

ley's  pup." 

Cornelius  Dooley's  terrier !  Thet  liar  heerd  me 
say, 

Flat  footed,  thet  Dan  Wilson's  dog  fit  best,  an' 
won  the  day. 

Through  North  and  South  Ameriky  the  wretched 
lie  will  hum, 

The  European  nations,  an'  the  hull  of  Christen- 
dom. 

An'  so   I   stan'  before    the  worl',  maliciously  held 

up, 
As   a   backer  and    admirer  of  Cornelius    Dooley's 

pup. 
I  stan'  there  huggin'  thet  ar  dog  'fore  ev'ry  Ian' 

an'  clime, 
An'  I'll  git  into  hist'ry  so,  an'  stan'  there  for  all 

time. 

So  all  the  nations  er  this  worl'  all  comin'  time, 
yer  see, 


150  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

Will  git  a  wrong   conception   an'  false  estermunt 

er  me. 

My  repertation  hitherto  hez  been  unushul  good, 
But   I'll   go   into   history,  "  The    Great    Misunder- 
stood." 

An'  sich  a  misconception  —  w'y,   it  never  can  be 

tor, 

How  it  wears  upon  the  feelin's  of  an  intellechul 

soul 
To  go  down  to  futur'  ages  booked   in    the  wrong 

catalogue, 
Travellin'  down   through   hist'ry's   visters   tangled 

up  with  Dooley's  dog. 


The  Songless  Poet  151 


THE  SONGLESS    POET 


"THE  world  grows  old,"  said  the  Angel  of  souls, 

"  And  faints  in  its  despair  ; 
I  will  cheer  its  age  with  the  spirit  of  youth  — 

I  will  send  a  poet  there. 

"  I  will  smite  its  gloom  with  the  joy  of  song, 

And  make  it  glad  again." 
Then  a  babe  was  born  in  a  poor  man's  home, 

And  a  poet  had  come  to  men. 

And  he  wandered  away  from  his  mother's  knee, 

And  played  in  his  father's  field  ; 
And  the  Angel  of  souls  he  waited  long 

To  see  his  soul  revealed. 

And  there  came  a  day  when  the  careless  youth 
Heard  the  Voice  of  wondrous  tone  — 

The  Voice  that  came  from  the  heart  of  the  world, 
And  spoke  to  his  heart  alone. 

Then  the  Angel  of  souls  bent  toward  the  world, 

And  listened  and  listened  again 
With  a  hungry  ear  for  the  wise,  strong  words 

Of  the  songs  of  the  poet  of  men. 


152  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

But  the  poet  he  said,  "  I  am  foolish  and  young, 

My  words  are  weak  and  few  ; 
I  will  learn  the  songs  of  the  wise  old  bards 

Who  sang  when  the  world  was  new." 

But  the  Voice  within  cried,  "  Speak  to  men 

The  words  I  give  to  say ; 
Fear  not,  but  speak  the  words  of  the  Voice,"  - 

But  the  poet  answered,   "  Nay. 

"I    will    learn,"    he    said,    "of    the    bards   of    the 

past 

Who  trod  the  young  earth's  sod 
When    the    earth    was    nearer    the    heaven    than 

now, 
And  the  prophets  talked  with  God." 

"Think  not,"  said  the  Voice,  "that  the  God  that 
filled 

The  souls  of  the  bards  of  yore, 
Now  leaves  the  world  to  his  underlings, 

And  visits  his  earth  no  more." 

"But  my  words  are  weak,"  the  poet  said; 

"  I  dare  not  speak  alone. 
I  must  feed  my  soul  on  the  songs  of  the  past, 

Ere  I  dare  to  sing  my  own. 


The  Songless  Poet  153 

"  I  will  learn  of  the  mighty  bards  of  the  past, 

Of  the  ages  far  and  dim  " 
And  the  awful  tones  of  the  Voice  within 

Spake  never  again  to  him. 

But  he  filled  his  soul  with  the  bards  of  the  past : 

They  thrilled  him  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
But  the  sad  old  world  rolled  on  in  its  gloom, 

For  a  poet  came  no  more. 

He  died;  and  the  song  that  was  in  him  died, 

Unreached  his  starry  goals ; 
And  his  soul  that  had  failed  of  its  mighty  work 

Went  up  to  the  Angel  of  souls. 

And  the  soul  stood  naked  before  that  gaze 

Of  fierce,  consuming  ire  ; 
And  the  scorn  in  the  look  of  the  Angel  of  souls 

Burned  into  its  depths  like  fire. 

"  Ere   a   bard    shall    sing    as   God    made   thee    to 
sing, 

The  earth  in  grief  and  tears 
Must  bide  its  time,"  said  the  Angel  of  souls, 

"And  wait  for  a  thousand  years." 


154  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  PERFECT  MAN,  BUT — 


JIM  BUCKS  was  cut  out  on  the  plan 
By  which  they  cut  the  perfect  man  ; 
Was  cut  by  Nature's  neatest  die, 
Such  as  they  cut  out  Adam  by ; 
And  his  design,   I'd  have  you  know, 
Was  perfect  —  for  he  told  me  so. 

And  all  the  reason  that  Jim  Bucks, 

His  life  long,  "  didn't  amount  to  shucks," 

Was  'cause  he  couldn't  get  on  the  track, 

And  other  people  held  him  back. 

Ah,  he  had  gained  the  door  of  fame, 

And  on  its  door-plate  writ  his  name, 

And  down  the  corridors  of  time 

With  bass-drum  music  marched  sublime, 

Had  not  his  friends  —  a  jealous  pack  — 

His  coat-tails  seized,  and  pulled  him  back 

At  Fate's  express  department  he 

Was  tagged  for  immortality, 

But  Envy's  dog  —  a  vicious  pup  — 

Stole  in  and  chewed  his  label  up  ; 

And  so  he  took  no  fast  express, 

But  stayed  there,  labelled,  "No  ADDRESS." 


The  Perfect  Man,  But-  155 

Now  all  good  folks  prepare  to  wail, 
And  listen  to  his  troublous  tale, 
The  saddest  since  this  world  began  — 
The  failure  of  the  perfect  man. 

When  Jim  was  young,  and  lived  in  Maine, 
An  epic  sprouted  in  his  brain, 
So  grand  and  perfect  and  complete, 
'Twould  crowd  John  Milton  off  his  seat ; 
But  his  illiterate  mother,  when 
Her  gifted  son  would  seize  the  pen, 
And  his  wild  poet-eye  would  roll 
In  the  mad  tumult  of  his  soul, 
Would  ask  him  if  he'd  fed  the  hog, 
And  send  him  out  to  chain  the  dog; 
To  hold  the  unfilial  setting  hen 
Upon  her  half-hatched  eggs  again ; 
To  scare  the  kitten  from  the  sink, 
Or  drive  the  turkeys  out  to  drink,  — 
And  so  John  Milton  on  his  throne, 
Without  a  rival,  sat  alone. 

Jim  nursed  grand  projects  in  his  head, 
And  told  his  wife,  when  he  was  wed, 
That  he'd  change  cotton  into  silk, 
And  turn  cold  water  into  milk. 
His  bride,  blunt,  practical,  and  fat, 
Said,  "Any  milkman  can  do  that." 


56  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

And  afterward,  when  Jim  grew  bold, 
And  tried  to  change  red  sand  to  gold, 
Just  as  the  sand  began  to  turn, 
His  wife  would  call  him  down  to  churn, 
And  when  he  turned  a  medicine-mixer, 


And  hunted  for  a  life-elixir, 

And  worked  for  two  whole  years  upon 

"Bucks'  Patent  New  Catholicon," 

Just  as  he  stood  upon  the  high, 

Sweet  climax  of  discovery, 

His  wife  made  this  transcendent  soul 

Come  down  to  fetch  a  hod  of  coal  ; 


The  Perfect  Man,  But-  157 

To  help  her  while  she  drove  the  flies, 
Or  chop  the  mince-meat  for  her  pies. 
And  so  the  dying  world  goes  on 
Without  "  Bucks'   New  Catholicon." 

Jim  might  have  steered  the  Ship  of  State 

Between  the  hidden  snags  of  fate, 

And  brought  her  out,  unharmed  and  free, 

On  destiny's  uncharted  sea, 

There  through  the  halcyon  waves  to  drift ; 

But  Jim  had  cinders  he  must  sift. 

And  listening  senates  Jim  might  sway, 

Had  he  no  butcher's  bill  to  pay; 

And  Jim,  unaided  and  alone, 

Might  swim  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 

And  shift  the  folds  of  history's  scene, 

And  make  Napoleon  look  green, 

And  rule  o'er  distant  seas  and  shores, 

If  he  didn't  have  to  do  his  chores. 

And  Jim  might  be  time's  grandest  bard 

If  he  didn't  have  to  clean  the  yard, 

And  watch  where  the  brown  pullet  lays, 

And  stretch  the  line  on  washing-days. 

And  doubtless  Jim  might  paint  as  well 

As  Rubens  or  as  Raphael  ; 

Or  make  the  living  marble  grow 

To  shapes  as  grand  as  Angelo ; 

Or  lead  a  mighty  host,  like  Grant ; 


158  }Vhiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

Or  write  philosophy,  like  Kant; 
Or  tread  the  tragic  stage,  forsooth, 
As  well  as  Irving  or  as  Booth,  — 
If  he  didn't  have  to  sweep  the  shed, 
And  pack  his-  poodles  off  to  bed. 

And  I  bear  witness  unto  you 
That  all  these  things  are  strictly  true ; 
The  truth  of  all  these  things  I  know, - 
-T  know  it  —  for  Jim  told  me  so. 


Two  Calves  159 


TWO  CALVES 

"  PERHAPS  you  know  better  than  I,"  said  Regi- 
nald Roosevelt  Steuben 

To  John  Hayseed  of  Grasstown  Four  Corners, 
whom  he  thought  very  much  of  a  "  Reuben." 

"  But  know  you,  Sir  Rusticus,  know  that  I  have 
attended  two  colleges, 

And  I  am  proficient  and  primed  in  all  of  the  isms 
and  ologies." 

Said  john   Hayseed  of   Grasstown  Four  Corners: 

"  Sho  !  then  you  hev  bin,  to  tew  colleges  ? 
I  s'pose,  then,  your  head-piece  is  crammed  with  a 

tarnal  assortment  er  knowledges? 
You   put   me  in    mind  of  a  caff  thet  belonged  to 

Squire  Abraham  Gleason, 
Who  hed  all  the  milk  from  tew  cows,  and  et  the 

hull  mess  all  the  season." 

"  Why  do  I  remind  you  of  him  ?  "  asked  the  youth 

with  a  rising  inflection. 
"  He  wuz  a  tremendous   large  caff — biggest  caff 

ever  raised  in  this  section." 


160  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


7//.T  BOOK-AGENT 


I  AM  not  deaf,  my  fellow-man, 

And  I  can  hear  you  shout  ; 
Your  words  are  audible  enough, 

"  Don't  want  your  book  !  Get  out !  " 
Don't  want  my  book  !     It  cannot  be  ; 

There's  some  mistake,  forsooth. 
Don't  want  my  great  "  Compendium 

Of  Universal  Truth!" 

Oh,  I  can  plainly  understand 

How  some  dull-minded  thing 
Might  scorn  my  book  ;  but  you  !  but  you  ! 

An  intellectual  king  ! 
A  mammoth-minded  man  like  you, 

When  once  the  book  is  bought, 
Will  revel  in  its  intellect, 

And  wallow  in  its  thought ! 

Why,  all  your  board  of  selectmen 
Have  bought  the  book ;  and  they, 

Why  they  all  said,  "  Be  sure  to  call 
On  Mr.  John  C.  Ray. 


The  Book -Agent  161 

We  cannot  understand  it  all," 

Said  they,  "  but  Ray  knows  beans  ; 
When  John   C.   Ray  has  read  that  book 


On  mediocre  men  for  sales 

I  place  no  firm  reliance  ; 
This  book  was  written  and  designed 

For  intellectual  giants  ; 
For  men  whose  skull-caps  bulge  with  brains, 

Who  know  a  thing  or  two  ; 
For  men  of  towering  intellect  — 

And  so  I've  called  on  you. 

You'll  take  the  book  ?     I  knew  you  would  — 

Of  course  you'll  want  the  best ; 
You'll  want  morocco  back,  gilt  top, 

One  that  will  stand  the  test. 
I'm  glad  I've  met  you,  Mr.  Ray; 

Though  ignorant  and  untaught, 
I  love  to  meet  a  man  of  brains, 

Of  intellect  and  thought. 


1 62  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  HEN-FEVER   OF  JED   WATSON 


After  it !  follow  it ! 
Follow  the  gleam  ! " 


TENNYSON. 


JED  WATSON,  he  was  after  it ;  he  followed  up 
the  gleam  ; 

He  chased  the  gorgeous  vision  of  his  life's  per- 
petual dream. 

He  had  a  faith  that  urged  him  on  through  all 
life's  wastes  and  fens, 

That  he  could  build  a  fortune  up  by  simply  rais- 
ing hens. 

Jed  watched  his  growing  pullets,  and  there  came 

a  vision  fair 

Of  palaces  with  porticos  expanding  in  the  air ; 
And  those   cloud-bannered  palaces,  reared  not  of 

stones  or  bricks, 
Were   built  of   all  the  unlaid  eggs  of   all  his  un- 

hatched  chicks. 

He  preached  the  poultry  gospel  unto  all  men 
everywhere ; 


The  Hen -Fever  of  Jed  Watson  163 

His    wife   said   he'd   permit  a  hen  to   lay  eggs  in 

his  hair. 
From  morning,  when  the  great  red  sun  rose  from 

the  ocean  foam, 
He'd   sit   and    theorize    on    hens    until    the   cows 

came  home. 

Hens    dangled   from    his    heart-strings,   and    made 

nests  in  his  brain, 
And  great  gigantic   hencoops  were    his  palaces  in 

Spain  ; 
And   all   his  active   intellect  was    focussed  like  a 

lens 
Upon  the    all-absorbing   theme   of   hens,  and  only 

hens. 

"One  hin  will  lay  twelve  hundred  aigs,  I  calker- 

late,"  said  Jed, 
"  An'  hatch  a  thousan'  chickens  that'll  mourn  her 

w'en  she's  dead. 
These  chicks  will  raise  a  million  more,  an'  hev  a 

few  to  spare  ; 
I'll   sell  'em  for  a   dollar  each  —  and   I'm    a  mil- 

lionnaire." 

So  Jed   he   built   a   hen-house  that  was   after  his 

own  heart, 
Though   his   own    house    in   which   he   lived   was 

falling  all  apart ; 


164 


IVhiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


He  gave  his  pullets  dainties  all,  of  corn  and  malt 

and  meat, 
While  his   own   wife    and   his  two  boys  had  plain 

salt  pork  to  eat. 

He   went  to   all   the   poultry   shows,  and   travelled 
here  and  there, 


And  put  a  mortgage  on  his  farm  to  pay  his  rail- 
road fare, 

And  went  to  hen  conventions ;  and  he  talked  to 
poultry  men 

On  "The  Boundless  Possibilities  of  the  Devel- 
oped Hen." 

So  Jed  he  followed  after  it ;  he  followed  up  the 

gleam, 
And  chased   his  hen    millennium   down   the  vista 

of  his  dream. 


The  Hen -Fever  of  Jed   Watson  165 

"  The  bin-house  door's  the  way  to  wealth,"  said 
he  ;  "  no  way  is  surer." 

But  every  extra  hen  he  owned  made  him  a  dol- 
lar poorer. 

His  hens  would  not  forget  to  eat,  but  oft  forgot 
to  lay ; 

And  if  they  laid,  forgot  to  hatch  —  a  hen's  pro- 
voking way. 

For  hens  are  haughty  as  the  gods,  and  whimsical 
as  men, 

And  in  ten  billion  leagues  of  hens  there's  not  one 
perfect  hen. 

But  Jed  he  followed   after  it,   he  followed   up   the 

gleam  ; 
For   every   hen    that    clucked    and    scratched    was 

perfect  in  his  dream. 
His   dream-hens  all  were  perfect  hens,  but  full  of 

faults  his  real  — 
There  is   a  marked  discrepancy  'twixt  actual    and 

ideal. 

So   poor   Jed   lived    a   bankrupt   life,   and   died   a 

debtor  slave  ; 
And    then    his    hens   went  out   and    scratched  the 

flowers  from  off  his  grave. 
Ah,  myriads   of  delusions  vain    have  grown   since 

time  began  ! 


1 66  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

But  the  hen-dream  is  the  vainest  dream  of  all 
the  dreams  of  man. 

But  we  all  follow  after  it,  we  follow  up  the  gleam ; 

And  we  all  raise  expensive  hens,  all  dream  the 
sweet  hen-dream. 

If  my  philosophy  is  true,  no  man  was  ever  made 

Who  has  not  speculated  some  in  this  same  poul- 
try trade. 


Heresy  in  Pokumville  167 


HERESY   IN  POKUMVILL 

I  HAD  for  neighbors  Silas  Bean 

Erastus  Gove,  an'  William  Smith, 
John  Andrew  Pratt,  Horatio  Dean, 

But  no  one  to  talk  Bible  with. 
For  Silas  Bean  would  talk  of  hops, 

Erastus  Gove  wuz  strong  on  cows, 
An'  William  Smith  on  onion  crops, 

An'  Pratt  an'  Dean  on  shotes  an'  sows. 
But  Bean,  Gove,  Pratt,  or  Dean,  or  Smith  — 
Not  one  could  I  talk  Bible  with. 


For  w'en  I  tried  to  talk  free-will 

With  Dean  or  with  John  Andrew  Pratt, 
They'd  talk  about  the  kind  of  swill 

Was  best  to  make  a  lean  hog  fat. 
An'  w'en  I  labored  to  arouse 

Some  intress  in  predestination, 
An'  talk  foreknowledge,  they'd  talk  cows, 

An'  hop  an'  onion  cultivation. 
A  sordid,  worl'ly  set,  you  see, 
An'  not  companyins  fit  for  me. 


1 68  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

An'  how  all  things  wuz  foreordained, 

An'  how  the  human  will  wuz  free, 
They  didn't  seem  to  want  explained, 

An'  never  listened  much  to  me. 
An'  w'en  my  argiment  bored  keen, 

Way  into  the  real   Scriptur's  pith, 
John  Andrew  Pratt  would  wink  at  Dean, 

An'  Dean  would  wink  at  William  Smith, 
An'  'Rastus  Gove  an'  Silas  Bean 
Would  jest  keep  silent  an'  look  green. 

But  'twas  a  glorious  day  an'  good, 

A  sweet  an'  blessed  day  fer  me, 
W'en  moved  into  our  neighborhood 

Melchizedek  Abraham  McGee. 
With  Scriptur'  zeal  his  soul  was  het; 

An'  'twas  an  edifyin'  sight 
To  see  us  set  an'  set  an'  set, 

An'  jest  talk  Scriptur'  day  an'  night  — 
Begin  with  Moses,  an'  keep  on 
Way  down  to  Peter,  Jude,  an'  John. 

We  grew  together,  he  an'  I, 

An'  might  hev  clung  together  yit, 

But  on  a  verse  in  Malachi 
We  made  an  everlastin'  split. 

I  pleaded — tol'  him  'twas  absurd, 
The  way  of  his  interpertation ; 


Heresy  in  Pokumville  169 

He  said  the  way  I  wrenched  God's  Word 

Called  for  his  sternest  condemnation  ; 
An'  said  I'd  started  on  the  path 
Thet  leads  to  everlastin'  wrath. 

I  tried  to  push  his  error  by, 

An'  pluck  it  from  him  limb  by  limb, 
An'  crush  his  wicked  heresy, 

An'  make  an  orthodox  of  him. 
He  said  my  soul  "  wuz  reperbate, 

A  Pagan  with  no  gleam  of  light, 
Thet  walked  in  unregenerate 

An'  dark  an'  sakerligious  night." 
This  got  me  riled;  I  waded  in, 

An'  soundly  thrashed  thet  man  of  sin. 

An'  hard  I  smote  him,  hip  an'  thigh. 

He  squirmed  about  and  raised  a  rumpus; 
But  I  —  I  knocked  his  heresy 

To  all  directions  of  the  compass. 
As  Michael  fit  the  Dragon,  I 

Laid  on,  an'  didn't  withhold  my  hand  — 
A  knuckle  argiment,  whereby 

I  made  the  Pagan  understand. 
I  beat  him  fair  an'  square.      Next  day 
In  contrite  shame  he  moved  away. 

Now  I've  for  neighbors  Silas  Bean, 
Erastus  Gove,  an'  William  Smith, 


170  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

John  Andrew  Pratt,  Horatio  Dean, 
But  no  one  to  talk  Bible  with. 

But  with  a  thirst  beyond  control, 
A  hunger  growin'  more  an'  more, 

I  long  for  some  congenial  soul 
To  lay  my  Scriptur'  views  afore. 

But  Bean,  Gove,  Pratt,  or  Dean,  or  Smith  — 

Not  one  can  I  talk  Bible  with. 


Wearing  His  Dad's   Or   Clones  171 


WEARING  HIS  DAD'S   OU   CLONES 


"  YES,  I,"  said  Jim,  "  shall  leave  this  hole  — 

No  place  for  men  of  talent  here. 
I  don't  propose  to  squeeze  my  soul 

Down  into  such  a  narrow  sphere  ; 
And  I  propose  to  make  my  pile, 

A  good  round  fortune,  fair  and  square, 
And  after  I  shall  once  strike  ile, 

I'll  grow  into  a  millionaire. 
Now,  brother  Tom,  where  will  you  roam? 

And  what  great  work  do  you  propose  ? " 
"Well  I,"  said  Tom,  "will  stay  to  home, 

And  wear  my  dad's  oF  clo'es." 

"  Now  I,"  said  Sam,  "  don't  care  for  wealth ; 

A  banker's  life  is  far  too  tame  ; 
But,  bless  me  !  if  I  have  my  health 

I'll  clamber  up  the  heights  of  fame. 
Our  statesmen  are  degenerate, 

A  poor,  debilitated  crew  ; 
But  I  propose  to  take  the  state, 

And  renovate  it  through  and  through ; 
To  rule  as  Caesar  did  in  Rome, 


172  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

That  is  the  end  that  I  propose." 
"  Well,  I,"  said  Tom,  "  will  stay  to  home, 
And  wear  my  dad's  ol'  clo'es." 

"Now  I,"  said  Bill,  "propose  to  rear 

A  name  to  permanently  endure, 
And  gain  my  province  square  and  clear 

Within  the  realm  of  literature. 
Just  look  at  Shakespeare  now,  and  note 

How  greatly  grand  he  looms,  and  tall, 
And  just  because  he  simply  wrote 

A  lot  of  writings  —  that  is  all. 
And  so  to  write  a  mighty  tome 

Of  thought,  like  him,  do  I  propose." 
"Well  I,"  said  Tom,  "will  stay  to  home, 

And  wear  my  dad's  ol'  clo'es." 

Jim  went  away,  and  started  fair, 

With  courage  strong  and  almost  rash, 
To  make  a  mighty  millionaire  ; 

But  then  he  couldn't  collect  the  cash. 
And  Sam  had  been  a  statesman  grand, 

And  ruled  where'er  our  banner  floats  — 
He  would  have  been,  you  understand, 

But  then  he  couldn't  secure  the  votes. 
With  votes  and  cash  they  might  have  clomb 

To  heights  of  wealth  and  fame,  who  knows  ? 
But  Tom  just  simply  stayed  at  home, 

And  wore  his  dad's  ol'  clo'es. 


Wearing  His  Dad's  <?/'   Clones  173 

And  Bill,  he  might  have  written  thoughts 

To  make  old  Shakespeare's  pale  and  sink, 
And  doubtless  would  have  written  lots 

If  he'd  had  any  thoughts  to  think. 
So  Jim  and  Sam  and  Bill  came  back 

To  their  old  home,  a  wan  and  thin, 
A  ragged,  hungry-looking  pack; 

And  well-fed  Tom,  he  let  'em  in. 
And  now  all  three  no  longer  roam  ; 

They  live  on  Tom  in  sweet  repose. 
All  three  contented  stay  at  home, 

And  all  wear  Tom's  ol'  clo'es. 


174  Wkiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


BACK-YARD  PHILOSOPHER 


THERE  was  a  sage  —  such  men  are  rare  — 

Who  owned  a  small  back  yard, 
Who  looked  upon  no  millionaire 

With  any  great  regard. 
He  stayed  within  his  back  yard  curled, 

And  let  mankind  go  by, 
Nor  wandered  up  and  down  the  world 

In  search  of  novelty. 

A  traveller,  who'd  put  a  belt 

Around  the  planet's  girth, 
And  roamed  so  far  and  wide  he  felt 

His  home  was  all  the  earth  ; 
A  travel-stained  cosmopolite, 

When  worn  by  wanderings  hard, 
In  his  migrations  chanced  to  light 

Within  this  sage's  yard. 

He  told  the  sage  of  seas  he'd  sailed, 
Through  storms  and  whirlpools  dreaded ; 

Of  lofty  mountains  he  had  scaled, 
Of  forests  he  had  threaded ; 


A  Back -Yard  Philosopher  175 

Of  restful  days  in  vales  of  spice, 

Where  perfumed  breezes  blow ; 
Of  polar  jaunts  o'er  seas  of  ice, 

And  herbless  wastes  of  snow. 


"  And  now,  my  quiet  friend,"  said  he, 

"  How  is  it  you're  resigned 
To  live  here  'neath  this  apple-tree 

With  a  contented  mind  ? " 
"Why,  my  back  yard,"  he  made  reply, 

Half  serious  and  half  gay, 
"  It  '  wanders  through  eternity,' 

And  spans  the  Milky  Way. 

"  For  he  who  knows  his  yard,   my  friend 

And  comprehends  it  right, 
Knows  the  wide  earth,  from  end  to  end, 

A  true  cosmopolite. 
The  geologic  periods 

Have  built  my  yard  for  me, 
A  rich  black  soil  that  blooms  and  buds 

From  nature's  old  debris. 

"  The  slime  of  prehistoric  seas ; 

The  silt  that  nature's  fountains 
Bore  down  through  long  eternities, 

From  prehistoric  mountains  ; 


176  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

The  inter-stellar  sediment 

From  unborn  planets  drifted, — 

Are  all  within  my  back  yard  blent, 
And  sorted,  mixed,  and  sifted. 

"The  lime  from  some  old  saurian's  bones 

Now  feeds  my  young  tomatoes  ; 
The  dust  of  old  volcanic  stones 

Makes  sweet  my  new  potatoes ; 
My  parsnips  draw  their  vital  force, 

My  grapes  their  luscious  blood, 
From  space  beyond  the  solar  course, 

And  time  beyond  the  Flood. 

"My  back-yard  garden  looks  inert, 

And  many  yards  bloom  brighter; 
But  still  its  strong  dynamic  dirt 

Is  powerful  as  nitre. 
The  long  result  of  cosmic  toil, 

Through  nature's  patient  stages, 
Has  concentrated  in  its  soil 

The  potency  of  ages. 

"The  sunrise  and  the  sunset  seas, 
That  make  the  old  earth  new, 

Are  cisterns  whence  my  cabbages 
Draw  their  supplies  of  dew  ; 


A  Back -Yard  Philosopher  177 

To  light  my  yard  with  blossom  smiles, 
And  make  my  beans  climb  higher, 

The  sun  through  ninety  million  miles 
Sends  down  his  shafts  of  fire. 


"The  rose  draws  fragrance  from  afar, 

And  in  a  flowery  focus 
Are  virtues  drawn  from  every  star, 

Converging  in  this  crocus. 
While  here  among  my  plants  and  trees 

I  stand  the  blue  sky  under, 
I'm  compassed  round  with  mysteries, 

And  tabernacled  in  wonder. 

"And,  while  I  watch  a  flower-bell 

To  springtime's  air  unfurled, 
I  face  the  great  insoluble 

Old  riddle  of  the  world. 
While  in  my  yard  I  feel  the  spells 

That  come  from  earth  and  sky, 
I'm  bosomed  deep  in  miracles, 

And  lapped  in  mystery. 

"Though  rooted  in  my  place  of  birth, 

I  have  no  wings  to  fly, 
My  roots  encircle  all  the  earth, 

My  branches  fill  the  sky." 


1 78  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

"Ah,"  said  the  traveller,  "though  I  span 
The  world  from  here  to  Siam, 

You  are  a  wider-travelled  man  — 
Indeed  you  are  —  than  I  am. 


The  Fat  Man  179 


THE  FAT  MAN 

"Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat." 

JULIUS  C^SAR,  Act  /.,  Scene  ii. 


I  SING  the  fat  man  ;  and  I  deem 

A  man's  intrinsic  worth 
Is  gauged  by  his  rotundity  — 

Proportionate  to  his  girth. 
The  fat  man,  darling  child  of  fate, 

Who  in  serene  repose 
Doth  nature's  stores  assimilate, 

And  turn  to  adipose, 
Who  from  the  boundless  universe, 

As  he's  a  right  to  do, 
Absorbs  a  corporosity 

Commensurate  thereto. 

"  Let  me  have  men  about  me,"  said 
Great  Caesar,  "  that  are  fat ;  " 

And  Julius  Caesar,  you'll  admit, 
He  knew  "where  he  was  at." 

The  fat  man,  everybody  knows, 
Doth  bask  in  virtue's  smile  ; 

For  as  he  grows  in  adipose 


180  /r///#y  from    Wild  Meadows 

He  doth  decrease  in  guile. 
And  'tis  my  creed,  though  cynics  carp 
And  cavil  much  thereat, 


No  man  can  be  entirely  good 
Till  he  is  fairly  fat. 

No  sour  cynic  is  this  man, 
No  misanthropic  churl, 


Tfie  Fat  Man  181 

And  his  wide,  manly  bosom  bears 

The  light  heart  of  a  girl. 
Of  nature's  bounty  he  partakes, 

With  gratitude  and  zest, 
And  in  her  pantry  is  no  food 

That  he  cannot  digest ; 
Who  from  the  boundless  universe, 

As  he's  a  right  to  do, 
Absorbs  a  corporosity, 

Commensurate  thereto. 


1 82  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  SONG  OF   THE  OPTIMIST 


"  Some  whiskey  is  worse  than  other  whiskey  ;  but  there  is  no 
bad  whiskey."  —  Kentucky  Proverb. 

LET  all  who  live  give  heed  unto 

This  proverb  from  Kentucky ; 
Let  men  of  divers  kinds  of  luck 

Believe  that  they  are  lucky. 
And  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed 

Let  no  man  dare  be  sad  ; 
Some  luck  is  worse  than  other  luck  — 

But  there  is  no  luck  that's  bad. 
Some  luck  is  undesirable, 

But  no  luck  wholly  bad. 

The  times  may  stagnate,  mills  decay, 

And  trade  be  far  from  frisky ; 
But  times  are  very  much,  I  ween, 

Like  old  Kentucky  whiskey. 
A  man  who  lives  in  any  times 

Should  be  exceeding  glad  ; 
Some  times  are  worse  than  other  times, 

But  there  is  no  time  that's  bad. 
All  times  'tis  good  to  be  alive  — 

No  times  entirely  bad. 


The  Song  of  the  Optimist  183 

A  man  whose  wife  is  loud  of  tongue 

Should  still  be  brave  and  plucky, 
And  think  upon  this  proverb  of 

This  whiskey  of  Kentucky. 
Yes,  let  him  simply  stop  his  ears, 

And  struggle  to  be  glad, — 
Some  wives  are  worse  than  other  wives, 

But  there  is  no  wife  that's  bad. 
Some  wives  are  somewhat  garrulous 

None  absolutely  bad. 

A  man  who  mopes  about  his  work 

Should  cheer  up  and  be  frisky, 
And  know  that  every  kind  of  work 

Is  like  Kentucky  whiskey. 
He  who  has  work  enough  to  do 

Should  nevermore  be  sad  ; 
Some  work  is  worse  than  other  work, 

But  there  is  no  work  that's  bad. 
Some  work  may  be  unpopular, 

No  work  entirely  bad. 

And,  like  this  beverage  they  drink 

As  water  in  Kentucky, 
Is  life  itself,  more  glad  than  sad, 

More  lucky  than  unlucky. 
A  man  who's  lived  and  had  his  day 

Should  pass  on,  calm  and  gladj 


1 84  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

Some  lives  are  worse  than  other  lives, 
But  there  is  no  life  that's  bad. 

Some  lives  may  be  tumultuous, 
But  no  life  wholly  bad. 


The  President's  Baby  185 


THE  PRESIDENT'S  BABY 


THE  President's  baby  we  salute! 
Wish  her  long  life  and  good  repute. 
Like  all  babes,  may  she  be  the  best, 
The  cutest  and  the  darlingest, 
The  sweetest  and  the  fairest,  she, 
Just  as  all  other  babies  be  ; 
The  nicest,  prettiest,  and  best, 
And  perfect,  just  like  all  the  rest. 

Still,  Fortune  unto  her  denies 
Her  great  and  most  transcendent  prize, 
The  gift  no  future  fate  can  harm 
Of  being  born  upon  a  farm. 

Born  in  the  White  House,  where  the  cows 
In  scented  pastures  never  browse, 
Where  flower-drunk  wild  bees  never  boom 
Through  meadows  lit  with  summer  bloom, 
Where  her  young  feet  can  wander  through 
No  tangled  fields  baptized  with  dew, 
Nor  chase  the  burnished  butterflies, 
Live  fragments  dropped  from  sunset  skies, 


1 86  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

Nor  follow  where  the  wild  brook  leads 
Its  lazy  pathway  through  the  meads, 
Nor  learn  the  dialect  of  the  breeze, 
Nor  be  a  cousin  to  the  trees, 
Nor  ever  feel  the  home-made  charm 
That  ever  broods  above  the  farm. 

The  farmhouse  as  a  place  of  birth 
Excels  all  palaces  on  earth. 
Born  in  the  purple  is  the  man 
Whose  life  upon  a  farm  began  ; 
A  young  prince  of  the  blood  is  he, 
Born  to  a  kingdom  wide  and  free, 
And  by  his  kingly  right  of  birth 
He  reigns  a  sovereign  of  the  earth. 
The  earth  its  natural  bounty  yields 
To  this  young  satrap  of  the  fields, 
And  spreads  her  best  gifts,  full  and  free, 
Before  his  barefoot  majesty. 

How  full  on  Nature's  bounty  feeds 
This  rhymeless  poet  of  the  meads  ! 
What  pictures  paints  she  in  his  eye  ! 
What  visions  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Which  the  dull  blur  of  many  a  year 
Can  never  cause  to  disappear  — 
Those  pictures  of  the  steadfast  hills, 
Those  pictures  of  the  winding  rills, 


The  President's  Baby  187 

Those  lilied  meadows,  and  the  fields 

That  incense  of  the  clover  yields, 

Those  orchards  —  when  the  earth  and  sky 

In  loving  bridal  joy  draw  nigh, 

The  earth  puts  on  to  meet  her  groom 

These  robes  of  blushing  apple  bloom. 

Those  pictures,  all  beyond  the  gleam 

Of  any  painter's  fairest  dream, 

Go  with  him  through  the  after  years, 

Through  mounts  of  joy,  through  vales  of  tears, 

By  distance'  soft  enchantment  kissed, 

And  bathed  in  memory's  mellow  mist. 

Life's  direst  tumult  cannot  harm 
These  placid  pictures  of  the  farm  ; 
And  when  Fate's  darkest  tempests  roll 
Through  the  black  midnight  of  the  soul, 
The  visions  of  those  early  days 
Of  life's  serene,  untrampled  ways, 
They  come  to  soothe  us,  fair  and  calm, 
And  bring  the  blessing  of  the  farm. 

The  President's  baby,  though  she  be, 
Has  missed  life's  fairest  destiny, — 
The  gift  no  future  fate  can  harm 
Of  being  born  upon  a  farm. 


1 88  Whiffs  from    }Vihl  Meadows 


THE  SONG  OF   THE   TRAMP 

THE  world  owes  me  a  living;  and 

I  roam  o'er  plain  and  hill, 
Through  all  the  highways  of  the  land, 

Just  to  collect  my  bill. 
I  own  the  world  by  right  of  birth  ; 

I  am  the  first  of  gents  ; 
I  am  a  landlord  of  the  earth, 

And  out  collecting  rents. 

I  beg  ?     Come  off  !     I  simply  dun  ; 

And  everywhere  I  go 
I  ask,  from  rise  to  set  of  sun, 

"  Fork  over  what  you  owe." 
I  steal  ?     Get  out !     I  regulate 

My  tenants  as   I  choose ; 
I  am  inspecting  my  estate, 

And  gathering  in  my  dues. 

In  spanking  teams  of  four-in-hand 
Plump  men  go  riding  by, — 

Proud  men  who  sleep  on  feathers,  and 
Who  gorge  themselves  with  pie. 


The  Song  of  the  Tramp  189 

"  I  am  your  landlord,"  then  say  I  ; 

"  And  though  you  spurn  me,  still 
Your  rents  are  due,  and  by  and  by 

I'll  call  round  with  my  bill." 


I  own  the  earth.     But  'tis  too  great 

For  one  lone  man  to  mind, 
And  so  I've  farmed  out  my  estate 

On  shares  among  mankind. 
I  own  the  world  by  right  of  birth ; 

I  am  the  first  of  gents  ; 
I  am  a  landlord  of  the  earth, 

And  out  collecting  rents. 


190  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 


THE  CONCORD  FIGHT 


WE  started  forth  at  break  of  light 

To  seek  the  ground  whereon  they  stood, 

Those  men  who  fought  the  Concord  Fight 
When  men  were  strong  and  good. 

Calm  silence  brooded  everywhere ; 

We  drank  the  beauty  of  the  day; 
The  earth  poured  incense  to  the  air  — 

The  fragrance  of  the  hay. 

Our  talk  was  of  those  ancient  men, 
The  running  fight  in  field  and  wood, 

The  birth-throes  of  the  nation,  when 
Brave  men  were  strong  and  good. 

And  yet  we  saw  strong  men  that  day 
At  toil  beneath  the  summer  sun, 

And  felt  that  labor's  battle-fray, 
In  truth,  was  never  done. 

Why  start,  we  asked,  at  break  of  light 
To  seek  the  ground  whereon  they  stood, 

Those  men  who  fought  the  Concord  Fight 
When  men  were  strong  and  good  ? 


77ie  Concord  Fight  191 

To-day,  and  all  the  years  to  come, 

The  battle-music  of  the  fife, 
The  martial  clangor  of  the  drum, 

Shall  time  the  march  of  life. 

The  long  war  wages  evermore, 

The  deathless  foe  must  be  withstood. 

To-day,  as  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Are  men  still  strong  and  good. 


192  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  MAN  OF  LEISURE'S  CREED 

I  LIVE,  I  live  to  fill  up  space 

No  other  substance  fills  up ; 
I  live  to  sponge  the  human  race ; 

I  live  to  run  my  bills  up  ; 
I  live  to  fill  up  time  between 

Last  evening  and  to-morrow ; 
I  live  to  keep  my  memory  green, 

And  see  what  I  can  borrow. 

I  live  for  one  who  loves  me, 

And  dowers  me  with  pelf  ; 
Through  pleasant  places  shoves  me, 

My  one  true  love,  —  myself. 
I  live  that  I  may  still  exist, 

And  still  keep  on  existing ; 
I  live  the  dinner-bell  to  list, 

And  still  keep  on  a-list'ning. 

I  do  not  live  to  toil  and  seethe, 
As  other  folks  are  seething, 

But,  'cause  it's  easier  to  breathe 
Than  to  refrain  from  breathing. 


The  Man  of  Leisure 's  Creed 

I  live,  I  live  to  wear  my  clo'es, 

And  get  myself  admired  ; 
To  hold  myself  from  work  and  woes, 

And  keep  from  getting  tired. 


'93 


I  live,  I  live  to  daily  get 

Whatever  I  am  getting, 
And  sit  and  sit  and  sit  and  sit, 

Because  I'm  fond  of  sitting. 
I  live,  because  it's  work  that  kills  — 

The  world  owes  me  a  living  — 
And  while  my  good  wife  pays  my  bills, 

I  render  up  thanksgiving. 


194  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 


A  MIGHTY  AMBITION 


IN  this  great  Ian',  where  all  is  free,  no  man  can't 

aim  too  high. 
Don't   shoot    at    ground-snipe ;    aim    for    stars,  the 

highes'  in  the  sky. 
The    humbles'  men,  our    elder    says,    hez    climbed 

to  great  renown, 
An'  shinned  up  Fortune's  highes'  tree,  an'  snatched 

her  apples  down. 

"Then    struggle   on,"  sez    he;    "be    bold,   an'  not 

afraid  to  climb, 
An'  jine  the  great  souls  on  the  heights  an'  summits 

of  our  time  !  " 
Them  words    er  hisn    jest    struck  home ;  I  vowed 

that  days  an'  nights 
I'd  toil  to  meet  them  mighty  souls  up  there  upon 

the  heights. 

The   way  is   long,    the   path   is   steep,   the    top    is 

fur  away, 
But    I    will   toil    an'    struggle    on,   an'    climb    from 

day  to  day. 


A  Mighty  Ambition  195 

My  aim   is   high  ;   but  on   I  press,  an'  I   puppose 

to  be, 
Some   far-off   day,  highway   surveyor    in    Deestrict 

Number  Three. 


I'll  climb  that  dizzy  height  some  day,  an'  on  the 

top  I'll  sit, 
Wen    I    will    boss    three   miles   of    road    an'    one 

whole  gravel-pit. 
A  puppose  firm,  a  courage  brave,  a  will  no  blows 

can  tame, 
Will  land  a  strong  ambitious  soul  upon  the  heights 

er  fame. 

And  that's  where  I  puppose  to  git,  where  I  pup- 
pose  to  be  — 

Eight  shovellers  an'  two  pickaxe  men,  an'  one 
boy  under  me  ; 

Ten  hosses,  an'  four  dump-cart  teams,  two  ploughs, 
a  yoke  er  steers  — 

An'  I  puppose  to  reach  this  height  inside  er  thirty 
years. 

Then    do    not   try    to    hoi'    me    back  ;    up  !   up  !   I 

mus'  be  gone ; 
The  motter  of   ambitious  souls  is,  "  On  !    an'  on ! 

an'  on  !  " 


196  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

My  aim  is  high  ;   but   on  1  press,  an'  I  puppose 

to  be 
Some   far-off   day,   highway   surveyor  in    Deestrict 

Number  Three  ! 


The  Old  Man  V  Boy 


197 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  BOY 


IN  Sleepy  Hollow  Graveyard,  when  the  long  day 
was  done, 

I  sadly  mused  above  the  dust  that  once  was  Emer- 
son ; 


,t>~1>     '"Vi-.M  ...  --V  - 

-,<,  Y-  -   -3 

And  where  caressing  zephyrs  the  clustered  green- 
ery wave, 

I  stood  in  chastened  reverie  at  Hawthorne's  quiet 
grave. 


198  Whiffs  from   Wild  Meadows 

On  this  green  hill,  'neath  sun  and  stars,  will  sleep 

from  age  to  age 
The    Dreamer  in  his  dreamless  sleep,  the   Mystic, 

and  the  Sage  ; 
The     best    (the     crown     of     all     her    years)    our 

Western  World  can  show, 
The  fullest  flowerage  of   our  time,  is  buried  here 

below. 

They  sleep,  nor  heed   the  winter's  storm,  nor  feel 

the  summer  breeze  — 
They  sleep,  but  the  strong  words  they  spake  are 

blown  o'er  all  the  seas. 
I  turned  away  where  bending  grass  o'er  humbler 

burial  waves, 
And   there   beheld   a   gray   old   man   who   walked 

among  the  graves. 

"  Great  men  are  buried  here,"  I  said.      He  wiped 

a  falling  tear. 
"Great  men,"  he  sighed,  "I  know  —  but  then  — 

my  boy  is  buried  here. 
God  gave  them  strength,  and  length  of  days  till 

all  their  work  was  done  ; 
My  boy  —  my  boy  we  buried  here  before  his  work 

begun  !  " 

The   Dreamer   and   the   Mystic  —  I   left   them   to 
their  fame, 


The  Old  Man's  Boy  199 

And  silent  left  the   poor  boy's  grave  —  the  grave 

without  a  name. 
Their  home   is  in  the  thought  of  men,  in  nations 

wide  apart ; 
The  boy  finds   love   as  warm  as  theirs   in   his  old 

father's  heart. 


I. 

WHEN  first  moved  into  Rundown  young  Dr.  Sarah 

Brown, 
The  little  town  of  Rundown  was  a  very  run-down 

town. 

The    steeple    had    dropped    off    the    church  ;    the 

schoolhouse  had  caved  in  ; 
And  nothing  flourished  in  the  town  but  ignorance 

and  sin. 

The  graveyard  at  the  village  end  in   silent  peace 
outspread ; 


outspread ; 

in    that   grave- 


outspread  ; 

But  the   live   men   of   that   village 
yard  all  were  dead. 

200 


The  Rejuvenation  of  Rundown  201 

For   there   are   those   communities    that    by   some 

means  contrive 
To   get  its  live   men   iji   the   grave    and  keep   its 

dead  alive. 

So  when  moved  into  Rundown  young  Dr.  Sarah 

Brown, 
The  little  town  of  Rundown  was  a  very  run-down 

town. 

II. 

When  Sarah  came  to  Rundown,  the  village  had 
no  "go;" 

But  Sarah  hitched  its  trolley  to  another  dy- 
namo. 

For  Sarah  every  morning  hitched  up  her  spanking 

steed, 
And   seized   her   medicine  valise,   and   rushed   off 

at  full  speed. 

She   was  nineteenth-century   lightning  —  she   went 

so  fleet  and  fast  — 
Mixed    with    the    cold    molasses    of    a    mediaeval 

past. 

And   so   at  this  tempestuous  speed   she  travelled 

every  day; 
A  cyclone  through  a  cemetery,  she  whirled  upon 

her  way. 


202  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

III. 

And  young  Erastus  Peterson  forthwith   began   to 

stir  ; 
For    young    Erastus    Peterson    fell    dead    in    love 

with  her. 

And  young  Erastus  Peterson  put  on  a  bosom 
shirt, 

And  from  his  finger-nails  removed  the  immemo- 
rial dirt ; 

And  from  his  immemorial  sleep  he  wakened  with 

a  bound, 

And,  moved  by  Dr.  Sarah  Brown,  began  to  hustle 
.  round. 

And  henceforward  from  that  hour  there  were  two 

live  men  in  town  — 
The     young     Erastus    Peterson     and     Dr.    Sarah 

Brown. 

IV. 

Now  in  the  town  of  Rundown,  as  you  may  well 

suppose, 
In    this   somnolescent    village    there    were    scmno- 

lescent  beaus. 


The  Rejuvenation  of  Rundown  203 

And  every  girl  who  had  a  beau,  she  told  him  — 
every  one  — 

What  an  elegant  young  fellow  was  Erastus  Peter- 
son. 

And  all  these  girls  to  all  these  beaus  made  such 

a  hullabaloo, 
That,  as  young  Erastus  hustled,  all  these  fellows 

hustled  too. 

So  all  these  fellows  hustled  ;   and  soon  the  whole 

slow  town 
Was    hitched    unto    the     dynamo    of    Dr.    Sarah 

Brown. 

V. 

And  their  turgid  cold  molasses  of  a  mediaeval  past, 
Struck  by  nineteenth-century  lightning,  then  began 
to  trickle  fast. 

And    to-day   no   livelier  village   for    its   enterprise 

and  snap, 
And  its  fin  de  siecle  vigor,  can  be  found  upon  the 

map. 

And  they  wished  to  name  it  Brownville  ;  but  'twas 

plain  it  couldn't  be  done, 
For  she  who  once  was   Sarah  Brown  was   Sarah 

Peterson. 


204  }Vh(ffs  from   Wild  Meadows 

But   she   said,    "Name    it    Boomville,    for    that    is 

much  the  same." 
And    they    named    the    village    Boomville  ;    they 

could  find  no  better  name. 


A  Millionaire  Pauper  205 


A  MILLIONAIRE  PAUPER 

How   can    you   set   there    an'   purtend    you   don't 

know  who  I  be  ? 
This   land,  ez   fur  ez  you  can    see,  it  all  belongs 

to  me. 

Don't   know  me  ?     Well,  I    am   surprised !     Don't 

know  me  ?     Well  thet's  fine  ! 
This    county   fer   ten    miles    aroun'    is    ev'ry   acre 

mine. 

The  hull  blame  thing  belongs  to  me,  I  own  it 
every  rod ; 

An'  you  don't  know  me  ?  Is  it  true  sich  igno- 
rance stalks  abroad  ? 

Them  fields,  them  woods,  them  parsture  lands,  ez 

fur  ez  you  can  see  — 
An'  you,   you  fail  to  reker'nize   a  millionaire    like 

me  ? 

What's   thet  ?     You    own    this    land    yourself   thet 

stretches  near  and  far  ? 
You   are    the    sole    proprietor  ?      You    mean    you 

think  you  are. 


206  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

You've   got   the   deed   in   black   an'  white   for  all 

this  wood  an'  field  ? 
You've   got   the  parchment  duly  sworn,  recorded, 

signed,  an'  sealed  ? 

I'm   glad  to    meet  ye.      Howdy  do?  Afore  I    fin' 

my  grave 
I'm   glad   to   meet    the    feller   who    hez   been   my 

faithful  slave. 

For  you  have  been  a  slave  to  me,  have  taken  all 

my  care, 
An'    kerried    all    my  burdens  while    I   played  the 

millionaire. 

You've  payed    my  taxes    ev'ry  year,  and   paid   all 

bills  when  due, 
An'  done  my  worryin'  for  me  —  I'm  much  obliged 

to  you. 

An'    coz   you    have   the    title-deed   held   firmly   in 

your  hand, 
You've  got  the   crazy  notion  you're   the   owner  of 

this  land. 

An'  though    I    feel    you    are    insane,  an'   crazy  ez 

can  be, 
You've    been    a    useful    maniac    an'    lunatic    fer 

me. 


A  Millionaire  Pauper  207 

For   I    insist    this    land    is    mine ;    for    standin'  at 

this  tree, 
The  land  is  mine  for  miles  aroun',  ez  fur  ez  you 

can  see. 

Why  not  ?  Why  not  ?  For  me  is  blown  the  clo- 
ver's sweet  perfume, 

For  me  the  pussy-willers  bud,  for  me  the  apples 
bloom  ; 

For   me    the    mowin'   fields   send   up   the    incense 

of  the  hay, 
For   me   the   medder    brook   tunes   up   its    rattlin' 

song  all  day  ; 

For  me  is   blown  the   balsam  breath    your  mighty 

forest  yields, 
An'  I   inhale  —  don't  cost  a  cent  —  the  healin'  of 

your  fields. 

I  have  no  plantin'  to  be  done,  yit  from  the  flowers 

an'  dew, 
An'  from  the  medder  smells,  I  reap  a  bigger  crop 

than  you. 

An'  pray,  why  should  I  plant  an'  hoe,  why  should 

I  dig  an'  plow, 
When    crops    an'   harvests   of   delight   drop    down 

from  ev'ry  bough  ? 


2o&  Whi/s  from  Wild  Meadows 

An'  so  I  say  this  land  is  mine,  an'  I  still  hold 
it  dear ; 

But  I  will  let  you  pay  the  tax,  I'll  never  inter- 
fere. 

An'  you  may  wave  your  title-deed  triumphantly 
in  air, 

But  I  am  certain,  just  the  same,  that  I'm  a  mil- 
lionaire. 

But  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir.     I'm  sure  I'm  glad 

to  see 
A  man  who's   drudged  so  many  years,  and  done 

my  chores  for  me. 

Come  down  an'  see  me,  won't  you,  sir  ?     I'm  sure 

I'd  like  to  be 
Much  more  acquainted  with   the  man  who's  done 

so  much  for  me. 

Where   do    I    live  ?     The  County  Farm,  way  over 

there,  you  see  ; 
You'll  find  me  there,  when  I'm    at   home  —  room 

Number  23. 


The  Candidates  at  the  Fair  209 


THE  CANDIDATES  AT   THE  FAIR 


THE  two  opposing  candidates  went  to  the  county 

fair. 
One  had  cologne    upon   his   clothes,   one   hayseed 

in  his  hair  ; 
One  travelled  burdened  with   ten  trunks  that  bore 

his  twenty  suits, 
One  bore  the  soil  from   fourteen  towns  upon  his 

shineless  boots. 

The  prim  dude  candidate   was  wise    in    economic 

lore, 
And  soaked  them  full  of   statesmanship  till  they 

could  hold  no  more. 
He   cited   economic   laws   in    terms   abstruse   and 

deep, 
And  principles  and  precedents  until  they  went  to 

sleep. 

He  quoted  from  Calhoun  and  Clay  and  Jefferson 

at  will ; 
From  Adam   Smith,  Sir  Thomas  More,  and  from 

John  Stuart  Mill; 


2io  \Vhiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

From  Plato  and  from  Aristotle,  Guizot,  and  Her- 
bert Spencer  ; 

And  all  the  while  he  talked  and  talked  their 
ignorance  grew  denser. 

And  then  the  hayseed  candidate   stood    up  there 

at  the  fair, 
While  his  unlimbered  whiskers  waved  and  flaunted 

through  the  air, 
And  told   them  how  he   raised  his   corn,  and   how 

he  cut  his  hay, 
And   how  through   fifty  working   years  he'd   made 

his  farming  pay. 

He  told  them  how  he'd       ained  his  swamp,  and 

how  he'd  built  his  fence, 
And  showed  them  what  hard  work  can   do  when 

mixed  with  common-sense. 
"  And   now   send  me   to   Congress,  friends,"   said 

plain  old  Silas  Brown, 
"  An'  I'll  make  things  you  sell  go  up,  an'  things 

you  buy  come  down. 

"  I    hain't   no    learned    prinserples ;    I'm    plain    ol' 

Stick-in-the-Mud, 
A  blunt,  plain  man  like  you  an'  you,  an  ignorant 

ol'  cud ; 


The  Candidates  at  the  Fair 


211 


An'  I  don't   know   no  books    an'   things,  like  this 

wise  chap  from  town  ; 
But  I'll   make    things    you    sell  go   up,   an'   things 

you  buy  com?  down. 


"I  ain't  no  statesman  who  can  talk  purtection  or 

free  trade  ; 
My  han's  too  stiff  to  hoi'  a  pen,  that's  made  to 

hoi'  a  spade  ; 


212  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

Them    ten-foot   eddicated   words  my  tongue    can't 

wallop  roun'  ; 
But   I'll   make    things  you    sell   go    up,   an'   things 

you  buy  come  down. 

"I  can't  talk  on  the  currency,  nor  on  the  revenue, 
An'  on   the   laws   an'  statoots   I'm   as   ignorant   as 

you; 
An'  I  jest   simply  promise  you,  sure's  I   am  Silas 

Brown, 
I'll   make   the    things  you  sell   go   up,  an'   things 

you  buy  come  down." 

The  fair-ground  echoed  wide  with  cheers  and  loud 
huzzas  thereat ; 

For  who  can  ask  a  better  scheme  of  statesman- 
ship than  that  ? 

And  next  week  at  the  polls  he  beat  his  rival 
high  and  dry  — 

But  things  we  sell  continue  low,  and  things  we 
buy  are  high. 


Bill,  Tom,  Ned,  Dick,  Pete,  Jim,  and  Me     213 


BILL,  TOM,  NED,  DICK,  PETE,  JIM,  AND  ME 


BILL,  Tom,  Ned,  Dick,  Pete,  Jim,  and  me, 
We  allus  managed  to  agree. 
When  we  wuz  schoolboys  and  wuz  small 
The  same  school  district  held  us  all. 
We  flew  our  kites  from  the  same  knoll, 
An'  swum  in  the  same  swimmin'  hole  ; 
We  bobbed  for  fish  in  the  same  pond, 
An'  hunted  the  same  woods  beyond  ; 
We  chased  through  the  same  pasture  lot 
The  woodchucks  that  we  never  caught  ; 
Loved  the  same  girl,  who,  sad  to  tell, 
Got  merried  to  a  city  swell. 
Bill,  Tom,  Ned,  Dick,  Pete,  Jim,  and  me, 
We  allus  managed  to  agree. 

We  allus  said  w'en  we  were  growed 
We'd  trudge  through  life  by  the  same  road. 
Bill,  Tom,  Ned,  Dick,  Jim,  Pete,  and  me 
Would  allus  manage  to  agree. 

But  Bill  he  went  to  raisin'  chicks, 
An'  Tom  he  went  to  makin'  bricks ; 


214  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

Ned  stayed  at  home  to  work,  an'  Dick 
He  run  a  sawmill  at  the  crick  ; 
Jim  went  to  raisin'  garding  sass, 
An'  Pete  he  give  his  time  to  grass  ; 
An'  me  —  wall,  I,  you  understand, 
I  am  a  railroad  section  hand. 

But  Bill,  Tom,  Ned,  Dick,  Jim,  an'  Pete 
Are  not  the  same  I  uster  meet. 
They  take  no  interest,  I  declare, 
In  keepin'  railroads  in  repair. 
For  w'en  I  bring  the  subject  round 
On  how  to  keep  the  road-bed  sound, 
Bill  goes  off  on  his  poultry  craze 
And  the  best  kind  of  hens  to  raise  ; 
An'  Tom,  it  seems,  don't  care  a  whack 
'Bout  any  kind  of  railroad  track, 
But  his  whole  conversation  sticks 
For  everlastingly  on  bricks ; 
An'  Ned,  he  almost  allus  fails 
To  take  an'  interest  in  rails, 
An'  w'en  I  tell  him  how  to  strike 
The  proper  way  a  railroad  spike, 
He'll  go  to  talkin',  sure's  yer  born, 
About  the  way  to  raise  good  corn  ; 
An'  allus  w'en  I  talk  to  Dick 
'Bout  how  to  run  a  han'car  quick, 
He'll  switch  to  sawmills  in  a  minute, 


Bill,  Tom,  Ned,  Dick,  Pete,  Jim,  and  Me     215 

An'  he  don't  take  no  interest  in  it. 

You  talk  to  Jim  the  whole  day  long 

'Bout  how  to  make  a  culvert  strong, 

So  it  won't  break  and  go  to  smash, 

An'  he'll  switch  off  on  succotash, 

On  pie-plants,  pear-trees  great  an'  small, 

An'  other  sich-like  fol-de-rol. 

You  talk  to  Pete  about  the  way 

To  keep  oP  sleepers  from  decay, 

He'll  drop  the  hull  blame  thing,  an'  pass 

To  timothy  an'  red-top  grass, 

An'  talk  an'  talk  for  half  a  day 

'Bout  the  best-sellin'  kind  er  hay. 

Bill,  Tom,  Ned,  Dick,  Jim,  Pete,  an'  me 

Can't  never  manage  to  agree. 

Once  roses  all  on  the  same  stem, 

I've  kinder  grown  away  from  them. 

For  I  hev  kep'  through  storm  an'  strife 

A  higher  intellechul  life ; 

An'  I  couldn'  hope  they'd  allus  be 

Companions  suitable  for  me  ; 

An'  I  couldn'  hope  they'd  understan' 

The  intellec'  of  a  railroad  man. 

But  I'll  keep  up  through  storm  an'  strife 

My  higher  intellechul  life, 

An'  try  to  love  in  very  truth 

The  humble  cronies  of  my  youth. 


2 1 6  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 


WEN  FATHER  BOUGHT  A   BARL   ER  FLOUR 


WEN  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

A  bar'l  er  flour, 
It  was  a  most  tremenjous  hour 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

A  very  huge  event. 
He'd  go  off  with  the  dingle  cart ; 
We'd  gather  round  to  see  him  start, 

And  watched  him  as  he  went. 
We'n  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 
It  wuz  a  great  an'   sollum  hour. 


Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

A  bar'l  er  flour, 

We  watched  a  long  and  tedious  hour; 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

We  watched  for  him  to  come. 
Bimeby  he  came,  drove  on  the  place, 
A  mixed,  sad,  glad,  look  on  his  face, 

A  look  that  made  us  dumb. 
We  seen  its  force,  an'  felt  its  power, 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour. 


Wen  Father  Bought  a  Bar'l  er  Flour     217 

Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

A  bar'l  er  flour, 

We  noted  if  the  bread  was  sour, 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

Or  was  it  riz  or  flat ; 
An'  wuz  the  doughnuts  light  an'  sweet, 
An'  wuz  the  flapjacks  fit  to  eat, 

The  pie-crust,  an'  all  that. 
These  questions  thronged  the  dinner-hour, 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour. 

Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

A  bar'l  er  flour, 

We  all  discussed  for  many  an  hour, 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar1!  er  flour, 

Its  varus  ins  an'  outs. 
If  it  wuz  nice  for  slump  or  cake, 
An'  if  it  left  a  stomach-ache, 

An'  all  our  hopes  an'  doubts. 
It  wuz  a  most  tremenjous  hour 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour. 

Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

A  bar'l  er  flour, 

The  neighbors  called  from  hour  to  hour, 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 
An'  tried  our  bread  an'  pie. 


2i8  U'/iiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

Some  said  'twas  good,  but  'twouldn't  last, 
'Twas  sweet,  but  it  would  go  too  fast ; 

Some  thought  the  price  too  high. 
The  neighborhood  discussed  the  power 
An'  strenk  of  that  ar'  bar'l  er  flour. 

\Y'en  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

A  bar'l  er  flour, 

Hez  been  a  long-remembered  hour, 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour, 

That  I  shall  not  fergit. 
Though  I  fit  through  the  Civil  War, 
An'  then  got  merried,  still,  by  gor, 

I  reckerlect  it  yit ; 
An'  I  cannot  fergit  the  hour 
Wen  father  bought  a  bar'l  er  flour. 


When  Cy  put  on  his  Meetirf  Clones         219 


WHEN  CY  PUT  ON  HIS  MEETIN'    CLO'ES 


WEN  Cy  put  on  his  meetin'  clo'es, 

His  go-to-meetin'  suit, 
There  wuz  no  critter,   I  suppose, 

No  fish,  nor  bird,  nor  brute, 
No  anything  on  earth  below, 

Or  up  there  in  the  sky, 
That  made  one-half  the  holy  show, 

Or  looked  ez  bad  as  Cy. 

There  is  no  critter,  high  or  dry, 

On  earth  below  or  in  the  sky, 

No  beast,  or  fish,  or  bird,  or  brute, 

Or  any  kin'  of  a  galoot, 

Can  look  one-half  as  bad  as  Cy 

Wen  he  put  on  that  suit. 

Wen  Cy  put  on  them  clo'es,  his  j'ints 

They  clanked  like  a  lawn-mower ; 
An'  his  two  ears  in  pick-ed  pints, 

Hung  down  two  inches  lower. 
One  eye  looked  up,  one  eye  looked  down, 

An'  both  eyes  looked  like  murder; 
An'  all  the  hair  upon  his  crown, 

Stuck  up  two  inches  furder. 


220  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

An'  when  Cy  smiled  he  hurt  his  face, 
An'  put  his  cheek-bones  out  of  place. 
One  foot  it  lagged  behind,  belated, 
An'  one  rushed  on  exhilerated ; 
For  all  his  bones  were  out  of  place, 
An'  all  his  limbs  mismated. 

Wen  them  ar  clo'es  hung  roun'  his  shape, 

Wen  Cy  put  on  thet  suit, 
He  looked  too  bad  to  let  escape, 

An'  yit  too  green  to  shoot. 
The  deacon's  breath  came  quick  an'  quicker, 

Then  in  a  laff  perdigious 
He  bust  in  sich  a  graceless  snicker, 

It  sounded  irreligious. 

An'  so  Cy  broke  the  Sabbath  Day, 

Wen  he  dressed  out  in  thet  array. 

The  deacon  laffed  until  he  cried, 

An'  Pratt's  boy  said,  "he  liked  to  died." 

The  elder's  buttons  broke  away  — 

He  bust  in  mirth  unsanctified. 

His  crooked  laigs  they  looked  like  prongs, 
His  feet  like  flattened  spoons ; 

He  walked  as  if  a  pair  of  tongs 
Were  dressed  in  pantaloons. 

His  arms  went  flappin'  like  a  flail, 
A  danger  to  beholders, 


When   Cy  put  on  his  Meet  in'  Clo'es         221 

Like  two  codfishes  by  the  tail, 
Hitched  onto  his  two  shoulders. 
Wen  Cy  put  on  his  Sunday  best, 
His  knee-j'ints  bulged  out  north  by  west. 
An'  west  by  south  stuck  out  his  toes  ; 
In  all  directions  turned  his  nose, 
Wen  Cy  in  Sunday  duds  wuz  dressed. 
Wen  Cy  put  on  them  clo'es. 

An'  w'en  ol'  Cy  he  came  to  die, 

He  sez,  "Wen  I  am  gone, 
I  wish  to  travel  to  the  sky 

With  my  ol'  trowsis  on." 
He  gasped  between  each  racking  cough, 

"  Let  my  ol'  duds  be  worn, 
Or  I  shall  make  a  circus  of 

The  resurrection  morn. 

Leave  off  them  go-to-meetin'  clo'es, 

Or  I  shall  wish  I'd  never  rose  ; 

For  Peter,  he  wouldn't  let  me  in, 

Because  'twould  be  a  dreffle  sin 

For  me  to  go  in  with  them  cloe's, 

An'  set  all  heaven  a-grin." 


222  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


THE  POET'S  SONNET 


ONCE  a  poet  wrote  a  sonnet 
On  his  Angelina's  bonnet. 

Then  he  published  it  on  vellum  ; 
For  that  is  the  way  to  sell  'em. 

Then  to  every  living  poet 

Did  he  send  it  round  to  show  it. 

Then  to  every  book  reviewer 
Did  he  send  this  literature. 

To  receptions  did  he  bring  it, 
And  recite  it,  read  it,  sing  it. 

To  the  papers  did  he  tote  it, 
And  he  asked  'em  all  to  quote  it; 

Told  the  public  readers  'bout  it, 
And  he  asked  'em  all  to  spout  it. 

For  two  years  through  all  the  nation 
He  received  congratulation. 


The  Poet's  Sonnet 

Then  again  the  sonnet  took  form, 
For  he  brought  it  out  in  book-form. 

Then  he  sent  to  each  reviewer 
This  new  gem  of  literature. 


223 


Then  he  paused  for  recreation, 
And  enjoyed  his  reputation. 

For  five  years  he  lived  upon  it  — 
Then  he  wrote  another  sonnet. 


224  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


A   DISREPUTABLE  MARTYR 

THE  morality  was  plastic 

Of  the  hero  that  I  sing, 
And  his  conscience  was  elastic 

As  an  india-rubber  string; 
And  he  had  no  aspiration 

For  the  lofty  and  the  good, 
And  in  my  estimation, 

Did  no  better  than  he  should. 
And  in  my  plain,  unvarnished  way, 
I  here  and  now  desire  to  say, 
His    mind    dwelt    more    on    present   fun    than 
on  the  Judgment  Day. 

And  his  speech  was  not  resplendent 

With  a  deep  and  hallowed  grace ; 
For  a  Sunday  superintendent 

It  would  hardly  be  in  place ; 
In  a  missionary  meeting, 

Gathered  in  a  sacred  cause, 
It  would  hardly  get  the  greeting 

Of  tumultuous  applause. 
And  here  and  now  it  should  be  stated, 


A  Disreputable  Martyr  225 

That,  in  some  tales  that  he  narrated, 
Twould  be  exceedingly  polite  to  say  that  he 
prevaricated. 

And,  to  speak  of  his  iniquity 

As  honest  men  should  speak, 
His  ethical  obliquity 

Was  markedly  oblique. 
I  do  not  wish  to  slander, 

Nor  to  pile  it  on  too  thick ; 
But  I  say  with  perfect  candor 

That  he  was  a  crooked  stick. 
And  here  and  now  I  would  imply, 
That  to  old  Satan's  watchful  eye 
Young  Jim's   transactions,   in  the   main,  were 
fairly  satisfactory. 

Jim,  he  went  to  every  fire, 

When  he  heard  the  fire-bell's  peal, 
With  a  passionate  desire 

Just  to  see  what  he  could  steal. 
For  in  a  conflagration, 

If  a  fellow  has  sharp  eyes, 
He  can  make  appropriation 

Of  some  valued  merchandise  ; 
And  Jim  was  not  so  good  and  pure 
But  he'd  buy  merchandise,  I'm  sure, 
By  other    than    the    formal    way   of    old-time 
cash  expenditure. 


226  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

Jim,  he  went  to  one  great  fire 

Last  May,  with  his  usual  zeal 
And  habitual  desire 

Just  to  see  \vhat  he  could  steal ; 
And  he'd  stolen  some  things,  maybe, — 

But  I'll  not  particularize,  — 
When,  "  My  baby  !     Save  my  baby !  " 

Came  a  woman's  piercing  cries. 
"  Yes ;   I'll  save  yer  kid,"  Jim  said ; 

And  she  pointed  overhead  — 
"  Up    there    in    the    highest    story !     Hurry ! 
Hurry  !  "  and  Jim  fled. 

And  he  vanished  through  the  fire, 

While  the  falling  timbers  broke, 

While  the  flames  in  many  a  spire 

Vanished  into  clouds  of  smoke  ; 

And  when  the  roof  came  crashing 

Down  in  ruin  to  the  ground, 
Through  the  red  flame  came  Jim  dashing, 

WTith  the  baby  safe  and  sound. 
The  woman,  with  her  arms  outspread, 
Reached  forth  and  grasped  her  little  Ned. 
Jim  placed  him   in   his    mother's   arms  —  and 
at  her  feet  dropped  dead. 

Then  two  book-leaves,  with  red  flashes 
Flaming  in  the  fervent  heat, 


A  Disreputable  Martyr 

Fell  and  turned  to  snow-white  ashes 
Lying  at  the  dead  man's  feet. 

"  Ah !  those  pages  once  were  checkered 
With  Jim's  sins,"  a  fireman  said, 

"The  Recording  Angel's  record 
Of  the  man  that  lies  there  dead. 


227 


But  when  he  saw  that  fellow  die, 
He  slashed  these  leaves  out.    There  they  lie. 
Jim's  ledger's  clean  up  there  to-night.      They 
keep  books  honest  in  the  sky." 


228  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 


PETER'S  PICTURE 

WEN  Peter  hed  his  pictur'  took, 

Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur', 
He  hed  an  agonizin'  look  ; 
His  neck  wuz  twisted  in  a  crook, 

Jest  like  a  bow-constricter ; 
His  hair  wuz  flyin'  all  about, 
Besides,  his  tongue  wuz  lollin'  out ; 
Seems  if  his  ears  they  flopped  an'  shook, 
Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur'  took, 

Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur'. 

Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur'  took, 

Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur', 
He  said  that  he  perposed  to  look 
Jest  like  them  picturs  in  a  book, 

Jest  like  a  Roman  victor. 
But  his  ol'  whiskers  stood  out  straight, 
So  straight  a  forty-seven  pound  weight 
Couldn'  pull  'em  down  ;  an'  there  he  set, 
With  one  eye  open,  t'other  shet, 
Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur'  took, 

Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur', 


Peter's  Picture  229 

Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur'  took, 

Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur', 
He  looked  so  desp'rit  an'  forsook, 
Hed  sich  a  strangling  chokin'  look, 

Jest  like  a  bow-constricter. 
An'  w'en  the  man  showed  him  the  proof, 
I  thought  that  Peter'd  raise  the  roof  ; 
He  couldn'  control  hisself  at  all, 
But  hed  to  set  right  down  an'  bawl, 
Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur'  took, 

Wen  Peter  hed  his  pictur'. 


230  Whiffs  from    \Vild  Meadows 


THE   GRADED  STREET 


OUT  in  the  country  sixty  year 
I  worked  an'  struggled  like  a  steer. 
I  dug  the  groun'  'ith  courage  stout, 
An'  dug  ten  thousan'  dollars  out. 
An'  then  I  bought  a  house  in  town, 
An'  moved  my  goods  and  family  down ; 
Because  I'd  grown  so  oF  an'  rich, 
An'  wished  conveniences,  an'  sich. 

Wen  I  want  water,  all  I  do 

Is  jest  to  kinder  turn  a  screw, 

An'  out  she  comes.     If  I  want  light, 

I  turn  another  screw  at  night. 

Folks  bring  my  groceries  an'  meat, 

An'  all  I  do  is  set  an'  eat. 

For  city  folks  jest  pay  their  bill, 

Get  all  they  want,  an'  jest  set  still. 

My  life  was  jest  about  complete 
Till  they  came  roun'  to  grade  my  street. 
An'  then  they  went  to  diggin'  roun', 
An'  dug  the  whole  top  off  the  groun' ; 


The  Graded  Street  231 

An'  then  they  lef  me  stan'in'  there 
Stuck  up  some  twenty  foot  in  air; 
An'  they  jest  yanked  away  the  street, 
Right  out  from  un'erneath  my  feet. 
My  house  is  stuck  up,  on  my  soul, 
Jest  like  a  bird's  house  on  a  pole. 
I  don't  see  how  I'll  git  about, 
Unless  my  angel  wings  sprout  out ; 
An'  this,  I  think,  can't  hardly  be 
Upon  a  chap  as  mad  as  me. 


An'  now  the  miser'ble  oF  town 

Says  I  mus'  build  my  front  steps  down; 

An'  run  'em  down  fer  twenty  feet 

Until  they  find  an'  strike  the  street. 

They  went  an'  stole  my  street  away, 

An'  they  will  wait  till  Judgment  Day 

Before  I'll  shin  down  twenty  feet, 

To  try  to  find  some  other  street. 

For  I  purpose  that  them  same  men 

Shall  bring  that  same  street  back  again  ! 

I'll  jest  go  down,  hand  over  hand, 

Upon  a  rope  till  I  strike  land. 

Build  front  steps  down  !  I'm  no  sich  loon ; 

I'll  leave  my  house  by  a  balloon, 

Or  any  other  kinder  way 

Before  I'll  build  them  steps,  I  say. 


232  Whiffs  from    Wild  Meadows 

I've  tol'  the  mayor,  flat  an'  free, 
To  bring  that  ar  street  back  to  me ; 
To  bring  it  back,  an'  dump  it  down, 
Or  I  purpose  to  sue  the  town. 
The  mayor  set  there,  like  a  caff, 
Jest  all  he  did  was  set  an'  laff. 


Says  I,  "You've  yanked  away  the  street, 
Right  out  from  un'erneath  my  feet; 
An'  you  have  lef  me  stan'in'  there, 
Stuck  up  some  twenty  foot  in  air. 
Ain't  you  a  purty  kind  er  mayor? 
You'll  wait  until  your  hair  is  grayer 


The  Graded  Street  233 

Before  I  buiP  my  front  steps  down, 
An'  poke  aroun'  to  fin'  the  groun'. 
The  mayor  set  there,  like  a  caff, 
An'  all  he  did  was  set  an'  laff. 

But  what's  he  more'n  a  thief,  I  say, 
Who  comes  an'  steals  a  street  away? 
Though  he's  the  city's  boss  an'  chief, 
He's  nothin'  but  a  common  thief. 
An'  I  shall  fight  the  man  like  sin, 
Until  he  brings  it  back  ag'in. 


234  ll'liiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 


A  MODERN  MALTHUSIAN 


I  CAN'T  git  no  job  ; 

'Tain't  no  good  to  try. 
There  is  too  many  born, 

An'  there  ain't  enough  die; 
There's  too  big  a  crowd 

Fer  a  man  to  wedge  in. 
I  can't  find  no  job, 

An'  I  sha'n't  try  ag'in  ; 
You  can't  git  no  job 

In  the  kentry  or  town. 
There  is  too  many  folks  in  the  worl', 
An'  there  ain't  enough  jobs  to  go  roun' 

Wen  the  worl'  wuz  cut  out, 

'Twas  cut  out  too  small ; 
'Twarn't  made  big  enough 

Fer  its  purpose  at  all. 
The  crowd  is  jammed  in, 

In  a  terrible  cram  ; 
Best  thing  you  can  do 

Is  git  out  er  the  jam. 
So  I've  crawled  from  the  crowd, 

An'  I've  jest  settled  down. 


A  Modern  Malthusian  235 

There  is  too  many  folks  in  the  worl', 
An'  there  ain't  enough  jobs  to  go  roun'. 

My  talents  is  large, 

But  they've  no  room  to  grow; 
The  worl'  is  too  small, 

An'  they  don't  get  no  show. 
"An',"  sez  I  to  myself, 

"  You,   Sempronius  Lang, 
Clear  out  er  this  mob, 

An'  -git  out  er  this  gang ; 
For  the  mob'll  jest  crowd, 

An'  jest  trample  ye  down. 
There  is  too  many  folks  in  the  worl', 
An'  there  ain't  enough  jobs  to  go  roun'." 

An'  it  don't  do  no  good, 

An'   I  ain't  goin'  to  look, 
Fer  all  places  is  filled, 

An'  the  jobs  is  all  took. 
The  worl'  it  wuz  built 

On  a  too  narrer  plan ; 
So  I'm  a  shut-out, 

An'  a  left-over  man. 
So  what  is  the  good 

For  to  rush  up  an'  down? 
There  is  too  many  folks  in  the  worl', 
An'  there  ain't  enough  jobs  to  go  roun'. 


236  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

There  wuz  jest  one  job  left 

In  Bill  Green's  cotton-mill; 
All  the  one  I  could  find 

In  the  hull  worl'  to  fill. 
But  I've  sich  a  big  heart, 

This  one  job  of  my  life, 
I  jest  give  it  up, 

Gen'rous-like,  to  my  wife ; 
An'  there  ain't  no  more  jobs, 

So  I've  jest  settled  down. 
There  is  too  many  folks  in  the  worl', 
An'  there  ain't  enough  jobs  to  go  roun'. 


The  Song  of  the  Brook  237 


THE  SONG   OF  THE  BROOK 

I  HASTE  by  hill  and  valley, 

I  haste  by  mead  and  lea, 
I  am  the  message-bearer 

From  the  mountains  to  the  sea. 
I  am  the  mountains'  courier, 

And  every  meadow  thrills 
While  I  carry  to  the  ocean 

The  tidings  of  the  hills ; 
And  every  meadow  hears  it, 

For,  as  I  go  each  day, 
Lest  I  forget  the  message, 

I  sing  it  all  the  way. 

And  the  lily  blooms  grow  whiter, 

And  loud  the  meadows  ring 
With  the  exultant  gladness 

Of  the  message  that  I  sing. 
What  do  I  tell  the  ocean  ? 

That  all  the  hills  are  strong, 
And  all  the  forests  on  their  backs 

Melodious  with  song ; 
That  to  the  youth  of  nature 

The  hoary  hills  are  true, 


238  Whiffs  from   Wild  Meadows 

And  that  the  ancient  mountains 
And  this  old  world  are  new. 

What  do  I  tell  the  ocean  ? 

That  on  the  sun-kissed  hills 
Are  perfumed  winds  of  healing, 

And  music-haunted  rills  ; 


From  their  eternal  altars 

For  evermore  shall  rise, 
In  all  its  Eden  freshness, 

New  incense  to  the  skies. 
The  hazy  mists  of  summer, 

That  o'er  their  summits  dwell, 
Brood  like  a  benediction, 

That  says  that  all  is  well. 

What  do  I  tell  the  ocean? 
I  say  the  hills  are  fair, 


77ie  So  fig  of  the  Brook  239 

And  drink  an  ever-fresher  health 

From  heaven's  infolding  air  ; 
That  sunward  ferns  are  springing 

Within  their  deepest  glooms, 
And  that  the  fields  are  drifted 

With  snow  of  apple-blooms  ; 
And  that  there's  mighty  music 

Where  mountain  torrents  meet ; 
And  that  the  heart  of  nature 

For  evermore  is  sweet. 

What  do  I  tell  the  ocean  ? 

I  say  the  hills  are  high, 
But  draw  new  youth  each  morning 

From  the  chalice  of  the  sky. 
They  drink  the  virtue  of  the  day, 

The  great  sun's  heat  and  light, 
And  bathe  themselves  in  stillness 

And  the  silence  of  the  night ; 
And  the  winds  around  their  summits, 

With  strong,   triumphant  breath, 
Proclaim,  above  a  land  of  graves, 

That  there  can  be  no  death. 

What  do  I  tell  the  ocean? 

That  life  blooms  everywhere; 
That  the  day  is  glad  with  music, 

And  all  the  world  is  fair; 


240  Whiffs  from   Wild  Meadows 

And  the  proud  tiger  lilies, 

And  meadow  grasses  near, 
And  all  the  drooping  willows 

And  alders  bend  to  hear. 
My  song  of  joy  and  gladness, 

My  song  of  hope  and  glee, 
Makes  one  long  strip  of  greenness 

From  the  mountains  to  the  sea. 

So  I  will  tell  the  ocean 

What  the  strong  mountains  say, 
With  all  the  added  gladness 

I  have  gathered  on  the  way ; 
That  the  smile  of  deathless  beauty, 

As  at  creation's  birth, 
With  all  its  old,  eternal  charm, 

Still  glorifies  the  earth. 
To  tell  this  to  the  ocean 

I  through  the  land  am  whirled, 
So  that  its  mightier  anthem 

May  tell  it  to  the  world. 


Uncle  Ted  and  Boston  241 


UNCLE   TED  AND  BOSTON 

OL'    Boston    sets    there    by   the    sea,    an'    hez    a 

thousan'  arms, 
Thet    reaches    out    through    all   the    Ian',    through 

all  the  hills  and  farms  ; 
Strong  arms  they  be,  thet  never  rest,  but  pull  by 

night  an'  day, 
An'  feel  new  strength  w'en  they  hev  drawn  our 

boys  an'  gals  away. 

An'  fingers   on  those   mighty  arms  through  every 

valley  dart, 
An'    us    oF    fellers    feel    'em    allus    pullin'    at    our 

heart ; 
For   w'en    the    arms    of    Boston    once    are    drawn 

aroun'  a  lad, 
They  pull  him  from  his    mother's    arms,   an'    pull 

him  from  his  dad. 

For   there    is    sights    in    Boston,   so    they   toF   me, 

thet  are  gran' ; 
For  there   is  centred   all  the  brains  an'   money  of 

the  Ian', 


242  Whiffs  from   Wild  Meadows 

Houses  that  start  down  undergroun',  an  reach  up 

to  the  sky, 
An'  men   almost  too    rich   an'   gran'    an'  good  an' 

wise  to  die. 

An'  men    there   jest  know   everything,   and    lug  it 

in  their  heads ; 
For    in    Boston    wisdom's    ketchin',    and,    like    the 

mumps,  it  spreads. 
So    my   boys    went    down    to    Boston  —  I    couldn't 

keep  'em  here — 
An'  I  went  down  to  visit  'em  an'  see  the  sights 

last  year. 

But  everybody  laffed  at  me,  an'  called  me  an  ol' 

duff, 
Because   I    didn't   talk   like   them,   an'    wear   their 

kin'  er  stuff; 
For   them   wise    men    in    Boston,    they   ain't   wise 

enough  to  know 
A   biled    shirt  doesn't   make  a   man,  who   has   no 

heart  below. 

She  may  hev  poet   fellers  whose   songs  fill  earth 

an'  skies, 
An'    flosserfers,   an'  things    like    that ;    but    I    can 

flosserfize. 


Uncle  Ted  and  Boston  243 

My  flosserfy   is   this :    A   man    may  live    an    awful 

while, 
An'    keep   his   clo'es    in    fashion,  an'  his   soul  be 

outer  style. 

An'  I'm  jest  ez  good  ez  Boston.     Let  her  throw 

her  arms  aroun',  — 
There's  one  ol'  chap  clings  to  the  hills,   an'    she 

can't  pull  him  down ; 
An'  I  will  wear  my  ol'  plain  duds  no  sun  or  rain 

can  spile, 
Nor  worry  'bout   the   fashion-plate,   but   keep  my 

soul  in  style. 


244  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 


TOM  AND  BILL 

I. 

TOM  uster  talk  till  all  was  dumb  ; 
But  Bill  would  set  an'  twirl  his  thumb. 

Us  boys  at  school  would  set  around, 
While  Tom  would  crack  the  air  with  sound. 

He  showed  us  all  his  future  course  — 
How  he  would  shake  the  universe ; 

An'  how  his  name,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Would  rattle  through  our  history. 

Bill  crossed  his  laigs,  an'  set  there  dumb, 
Jest  set  there  still,  an'  twirled  his  thumb. 


II. 

An'  we  all  thought  that  Tom  was  great, 
An'  big  enough  to  rule  the  State. 

Beside  him  Bonyparte  looked  small ; 
An'  Washington  warn't  very  tall ; 


Tom  and  Bill 

An'  General  Jackson  side  er  him  — 
A  babe  'longside  a  seraphim ! 

"White  House'll  be  too  small  for  him 
Wen  he  is  Presidunt,"  said  Jim. 


245 


But  Bill,  he  on'y  set  there  dumb, 

Jest  set  there  still,  an'  twirled  his  thumb. 


III. 

An'  w'en  Tom  went  away  from  school, 
He  said  his  teacher  was  a  fool ; 


246  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

An'  then  he  took  five  hours  to  show 
How  much  his  teacher  didn't  know ; 

Then  talked  ten  hours  to  make  us  see 
Jest  how  much  more  he  knowed  than  he. 

This  wisdom-reservoy  poured  forth 
Its  waters  on  the  dried-up  earth. 

We  sunk  —  we  were  too  tired  to  walk  — 
Drowned  in  the  ocean  of  his  talk. 

But  Bill  upon  the  shore  set  dumb ; 
He  jest  set  still,  an'  twirled  his  thumb. 

IV. 

The  war  broke  out ;  an'  evr'y  night 
Tom  showed  his  neighbors  how  to  fight. 

He'd  make  each  night  —  at  Blancom's  store' 
His  sabre  whiz,  his  cannon  roar. 

Oh,  loud  would  swish  his  flashin'  blade ! 
An'  loud  would  roar  his  cannonade  ! 

An'  fierce  he  swum  out  from  the  shore 
Into  a  swashin'  sea  of  gore ! 

Each  night  he  drilled  his  soldiers  raw, 
An'  fought,  an'  finished  up  the  war ! 


To m  and  Bill  247 

He  did  it  —  up  North  —  with  his  mouth  ; 
The  climate  was  too  hot  down  South. 

V. 

But  Bill,  he  raised  a  troop  of  men, 
An'  marched  away  as  cap'n  then. 

They  made  him  colonel.     He  stood  dumb, 
An'  simply  blushed,  an'  twirled  his  thumb. 

But  'neath  red  battle's  fiery  suns 

He  did  loud  talkin'  —  through  his  guns. 

Wen  general,  he  put  on  no  starch ; 

An'  all  he  said  was,  "  Forrerd !    March  !  " 

He  made  no  speech  as  on  he  led; 

"  Forrerd !  "  and  "  Fire  !  "  was  all  he  said. 

An'  through  a  hunderd  battles  grim 
He  let  his  loud  guns  speak  for  him. 

VI. 

Back  through  the  Ian'  he  helped  to  save, 
An'  make  too  pure  for  a  slave ; 

Back  from  the  awful,  bloody  years, 
Back  through  an  avenoo  of  cheers, 


248  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

Marched  General  Bill.     The  loud  hurrahs 
Rolled  up,  an'  reached  the  list'nin'  stars. 

He  rode  through  all  the  loud  cheers  dumb; 
But  dropped  a  tear,  an'  twirled  his  thumb. 

VII. 

But  Tom  still  goes  to  Blancom's  store, 
An'  talks,  as  in  the  days  of  yore; 

Still  shows  his  wondrous  wealth  of  brains 
By  criticising  Bill's  campaigns. 

He  shows  the  great  mistakes  Bill  made ; 
Shows  all  his  actions  second  grade ; 

Shows  his  own  military  skill 
Is  far  be-end  the  reach  of  Bill, 

An'  how,  if  Bill  hed  done  his  ways, 
The  war  had  closed  in  thirty  days. 

An'  once  up  to  the  State  House,  where 
OF  Bill  sets  in  the  guv'nor's  chair, 

Did  ol'  Tom  go  —  he  warn't  afraid  — 
To  tell  Bill  the  mistakes  he'd  made. 

An'  Bill,  he  jest  set  still  there,  dumb ; 
He  jest  set  still,  an'  twirled  his  thumb. 


Fate 


249 


FATE 

O'ER  Moses'  wave-tossed  cradle  in  the  Nile 

I    stood,    and    smoothed    the    torrent's    troubled 

breast, 

Until  it  lulled  the  unconscious  babe  to  rest. 
On  a  frail  caravel,  o'er  many  a  mile 
Of  unploughed  waste  of  sea,  I  stood ;  and  while 

The  strong  Columbus  gazed  into  the  west, 
And  mutinous  sailors  mocked  his  mighty  quest, 
I  gave  the  Admiral  courage  with  my  smile. 


I  led  the  strolling  players  to  the  town 

Where  Avon's  waters  o'er  the  pebbles  broke, 
And  the  young  Shakespeare  played  in  child- 
ish joy. 

He  heard  the  play-king,  listened  to  the  clown  ; 
And  there  the  world's  supremest  poet  woke 
Within  the  heart  of  that  young,  careless  boy. 


250  Whijfs  from  Wild  Meadows 


THE  BATTLE  IN   THE  MIST 


FROM  the  loud  squabbles  of  the  men  of  thought, 
The  bitter  hates  of  bard  and  scientist,  ^ 

The  feuds  between  sage  and  religionist, 

I  turn  away  with  sadness  overwrought, 

With  all  their  fierce  logomachy  distraught; 
For  they  are  warriors  fighting  in  the  mist  — 
Friend  smiting  friend  for  an  antagonist, 

And  brother  piercing  brother,  all  for  naught. 

I  turn  aside  from  all  this  loud  uproar 

Of  men  of  peace  transformed  to  sons  of  strife, 

The  tumult  of  their  ineffectual  rage ; 

And  find  a  peace,  increasing  more  and  more, 

Within  the  inner  calm  of  that  great  life, 

The  godlike  tolerance  of  Shakespeare's  page. 


The   Voyage  251 


THE   VOYAGE 

OUT  from  the  Harbor  of  the  Shadowy  Shore 
We  sail  into  the  gladness  of  the  day ; 
A  breath  of  spice  from  islands  far  away 

Allures  us  on  to  where  the  deep  seas  roar. 

The  lightnings  play  about  us,  and  before 

Our  cleaving  prow  the  tempest  marks  its  way 
With  broken  wrecks ;  but  still  we  cannot  stay. 

A  voice  beyond  the  storm  calls  evermore. 

We    spread    our    sails    to    catch    the    wind    and 

breeze, 

The  wandering  zephyr,  or  the  simoom's  breath ; 
And   on   we    sail,    nor    strength    nor    purpose 

fails, 
Till  through  the  sunset  of  alluring  seas, 

Through  twilight  splendors,  do  we  drift  toward 

death,  — 
The  silent  Isle  of  Unreturning  Sails. 


252  WJiiffs  from   Wild  Meadows 


MY  SABBATHS 


MY  Sabbaths  come  not  with  the  hastening  weeks, 
Nor  with  the  phases  of  the  changeful  moon ; 
They  lie  outside  of  time,  but,  late  or  soon, 

With  glad  purpureal  and  auroral  streaks 

Of  the  full-risen  morning,  flush  the  cheeks 
Of  the  soul's  midnight,  and  I  feel  the  boon 
Of  life's  supremest  effluence  at  its  noon, 

And  gain  an  outlook  from  its  highest  peaks. 

The  old  earth  and  the  ancient  heavens  grow  new ; 
God's  throne,  I  feel,  sits  calm  in  central  peace ; 

The  worlds  to  that  old  primal  music  roll 
Upon  those  holy  days,  —  alas  !  so  few,  — 
Those  sacred  days  of  freedom  and  release, 
Those  dateless,  timeless  Sabbaths  of  the  soul. 


The  Coming  American  253 


THE  COMING  AMERICAN 


[Read  at  Mr.  Henry  C.  Bowen's  Annual  Fourth  of  July  Celebra- 
tion, at  Roseland  Park,  Woodstock,  Conn.,  July  4,  1894.] 


ON  the  Fourth  of  July  we  all  love  to  dilate 
With  the  thought  that  we  are  inexpressibly  great; 
That  we're  all  legatees  of  fate's  fairest  bequest, 
And  that  destiny's  egg  has  been  laid  in  our  nest; 
That   we've    climbed    up   the    sides,    up   the    roof, 

and  sublime 

We  stand  on  the  top  of  the  ridge-pole  of  time. 
The  horizon's  too  narrow  to  limit  our  stride, 
And  infinite  space  is  too  small  for  our  pride ; 
Heaven's  vault  is  too  small  our  hosannas  to  ring, 
And  the  zenith  too  low  for  our  gestures  to  swing; 
Our  heads  are  too  tall  for  the  low-studded  sky, 
And   we   call   for  "  more   room ! "    on   the    Fourth 

of  July. 

'Tis  a  day  you  expect  that  the  orthodox  bard 
His  poetical  bunting  will  flaunt  by  the  yard  ; 
'Tis  a  time  you  expect  his  tumultuous  Muse 
To  explode  at  the  end  of  a  sky-rocket  fuse. 


254  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

Still  I  venture  to  tempt  the  bold  heretic's  curse, 
And  tremblingly  give  my  unorthodox  verse. 

For    aren't    we    too   old    to   be   pleased,    like    the 

boys, 

With  glory  and  gunpowder,  thunder  and  noise  ? 
Too  old  to  sit  down  in  unruffled  sedateness, 
And  muse  on  our  grand  and  ineffable  greatness  ? 
The  loud  days  of  our  national  boyhood  are  over, 
The  barefooted  freedom  of  dew  and  of  clover; 
And    let    us    throw    off,    with    the    boy's     outworn 

jacket, 

The  old  day  of  rollic  and  revel  and  racket. 
Those  days   are  now  passed ;    they  will   not  come 

again. 
We    are   men.      Let   us   grapple    the    problems    of 

men. 

And    as    men,    may   we    not,    on    the    Fourth    of 

July, 

Some  specks  in  our  history's  amber  descry? 
As  the  politic  small  boy  will  creep,  on  the  sly, 
To  the  side  of  the  table  that's  nearest  the  pie, 
So  we  press  around  —  and  the  crowding  is  great  — 
To  the  luscious  pie-side  of  the  table  of  fate. 
But  the   small  boy  will   learn,   as    the   swift  years 

go  by, 
There  are  viands  transcendently  better  than  pie. 


The  Coming  American  255 

Let  us  look  at  the  sum  of  our  work  'neath  the  sun. 
Have  we   yet  done    as  much  as   the  old  past  has 

done  ? 
\Ye    have    built    our    large    cities    of    marble    and 

brick ; 
But    our    Shakespeares    and    Platos    are    not    very 

thick. 
We  have    urged  them    to  speak  with    the  best    of 

good-will ; 

But  our  Miltons  are  mute  and  inglorious  still. 
Our  dawn  has  now  passed,  and  the  morning  grows 

late; 

But  our  absentee  Angelos  linger  and  wait. 
Our  hastening  noonday  encroaches  on  morn; 
But   our    Darwins    and    Newtons    have    yet    to    be 

born. 

From    the    dead    buried   past   there  are  phantoms 

arise, 

With  scorn  in  the   cavernous  deeps  of  their  eyes  ; 
And  they  say,  "  We  have  searched  for  him,  patient 

and  far, 
Through  your   broad-acred    Land    of   the    Evening 

Star. 
We   have  called   for  him   long  ;   but   his  voice    is 

still  dumb. 
Our    brother    still     lingers ;     our    peer    does    not 


256  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

But  we  have  had  epics  of  mighty  designs 
On  manuscript  ruled  with  the  longitude  lines. 
On  a  continent-manuscript,  boldly  and  free, 
\Ye  have  written  our  epics  in  railroads  ;  and  we 
Have    worked    out    our  dramas.      Each    act  is    an 

age; 

And  a  land  from  the  sea  to  the  sea  is  our  stage. 
We   have   grappled  with    nature,    and    tamed    her. 

The  fen, 

The  swamp,  and  the  forest,  the  wolverine's  den, 
The  home  of  the  bison,  the  haunt  of  the  bear, 
The     thronged     and     the    tall-towered    cities     are 

there  ; 

And    the    nest    of    the    serpent,    the    wild    dragon- 
fen, 
Resound  with  the  shouts  of  the  children  of  men. 

Now  the    snake's    hiss    is   hushed,  and    the  wolf's 

howl  is  dumb, 

Has  the  hour  not  struck  for  our  poet  to  come  ? 
Now  our    cables    are    laid,   and    our   railroads    are 

wrought, 
Build   us  temples   and   fanes   for  the    high-priests 

of  thought. 
Now   our   prairies   by  million-trod    pavements   are 

lined, 
Build  us  highways  that  stretch  to  the  frontiers  of 

mind. 


The  Coming  American  257 

Now  our  cities  are  sown  by  sea,  river,  and  glen, 
Let  us  look  for  a  harvest  of  epochal  men ; 
Let  us  look  for  a  Voice  from  the  wilderness  sent 
To  teach  us  a  wise  and  divine  discontent,— 
Discontent  at  mere  bulk,  tossed  by  waves  and  by 

breeze, 

With  no  pilot  soul  on  the  rudderless  seas. 
Let  us  look  for  great  bards  whose  tones,  fervent 

and  strong, 
Shall  burst  like  the  morn  through  our  twilight  of 

song  ; 

Wise  prophets,  whose  sky-lifted  eyes  are  alight 
With  a  gleam  that  is  caught  from  the  future's  far 

height, 

Who   see   through    the    fogs    o'er   the   valley   out- 
spread 

The  sunburst  of  hope  on  the  mountains  ahead. 
Is  it  not  time  to  grow,  in  town,  village,  and  glen, 
A  strong  breed  of  men  who  are  saviours  of  men  ? 
Strong    pioneer   souls   who    shall    blaze    out    the 

way 
From    the    frontiers    of    night    to    the    borders    of 

day? 

Shall  not  this  maternal  pure  soil  of  the  West 
Foster  sages  and  seers  on  its  matronly  breast  ? 
Shall  we  not  find  once  more,  in  these  late  years 

again, 
The  pride  of  old  Homer,  wise  shepherds  of  men  ? 


258  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

Let    us    beckon    these    men,   with    our   favor   and 

praise, 
And  giants  shall  grow  in  the  earth  in  these  days. 

We  are  large,  and  our  largeness  there's  none  to 
deny; 

But  Fate  calls,  and  who  answers  with  brave  "  Here 
am  I"? 

Little  Athens  was  small,  but  her  soul  still  sur- 
vives 

With  gifts  of  its  graces  in  millions  of  lives  ; 

But  Scythia  was  large,  and  the   long  ages  tread 

On  the  answerless  dust  of  her  myriad  dead. 

Little  Concord  —  great  sons  made  this  small  vil- 
lage great; 

Great  Chicago  —  ah,  well  !    We  will  listen  and  wait. 

There  is  music,  I  know,  that  is  hopeful  and  blithe 

In  the  swing  of  the  sickle,  the  sweep  of  the 
scythe  ; 

In  the  lisp  of  the  foreplane,  the  smith's  anvil- 
peal, 

In  the  roar  of  the  mill,  and  the  clash  of  its 
wheel ; 

There's  a  music  that's  timed  to  the  rhythmical 
beat 

Of  the  quick-step  of  Fate  in  the  thunderous 
street ; 


The  Coming  American  259 

There's  a  music  that's  played  by  the  breeze  and 

the  gale 
In    the   creak   of   the    mast    and    the  flap  of   the 

sail  ; 
And  there's  something  that   smacks  of   an  epical 

strain 
In    the   clank    of   the    engine,    the    sweep    of    the 

train. 
This  music,   though   mixed  with    the  toilers'   tired 

moan, 
And    mingled    with    heart-break    too    deep    for    a 

groan, 

Is  wrought  out  at  length  in  an  anthem  sublime 
That     fills     without     discord     the     wise     ear     of 

Time. 

But  this  is  but  prelude  Fate's  orchestra  plays, 
To  the   strains  that  shall  come  in  the  fulness  of 

days; 
For  the   age-lengthened   rhythm   beat   out   by  the 

Fates 

In  the  building  of  cities,  the  founding  of  states, 
In    the    earthquakes    of    war,    in    its    thunder   and 

groans, 
In    the    battles    of    kings,    and    the    crumbling    of 

thrones, 

Is  but  prelude  that's  written  by  Destiny's  pen 
To  herald  an  epoch  of  masterful  men. 


260  Whiffs  from   Wild  Meadows 

In    that    day  we    shall   worship,  by  wisdom    made 

whole, 

Not  greatness  of  bulk,  but  perfection  of  soul ; 
And  the  thought-millionaires  with  our  full  acclaim 

then 
Will    be    wreathed    and    anointed    the    leaders    of 

men. 
And   methinks   our  Great   Fate,   from   the  hills  to 

the  sea, 
Has    sent   forth    this    call    to    the    years    yet    to 

be:- 

Bring  me  men  to  match  my  mountains  ; 

Bring  me  men  to  match  my  plains,  — 
Men  with  empires  in  their  purpose, 

And  new  eras  in  their  brains. 
Bring  me  men  to  match  my  prairies, 

Men  to  match  my  inland  seas, 
Men  whose  thought  shall  pave  a  highway 

Up  to  ampler  destinies  ; 
Pioneers  to  clear  Thought's  marshlands, 

And  to  cleanse  old  Error's  fen  ; 
Bring  me  men  to  match  my  mountains  — 
Bring  me  men  ! 

Bring  me  men  to  match  my  forests, 
Strong  to  fight  the  storm  and  blast, 

Branching  toward  the  skyey  future, 
Rooted  in  the  fertile  past. 


The  Coming  American  261 

Bring  me  men  to  match  my  valleys, 

Tolerant  of  sun  and  snow, 
Men  within  whose  fruitful  purpose 

Time's  consummate  blooms  shall  grow. 
Men  to  tame  the  tigerish  instincts 

Of  the  lair  and  cave  and  den, 
Cleanse  the  dragon  slime  of  Nature  — 
Bring  me  men  ! 

Bring  me  men  to  match  my  rivers, 

Continent  cleavers,  flowing  free, 
Drawn  by  the  eternal  madness 

To  be  mingled  with  the  sea; 
Men  of  oceanic  impulse, 

Men  whose  moral  currents  sweep 
Toward  the  wide-infolding  ocean 

Of  an  undiscovered  deep; 
Men  who  feel  the  strong  pulsation 

Of  the  Central  Sea,  and  then 
Time  their  currents  to  its  earth  throb  — 
Bring  me  men  ! 


262  Whijffs  from  Wild  Mcadous 


THE  PRESS 


[Read  in  response  to  a  toast  at  the  Tilton,  N.H.,  Seminary 
Association,  at  the  Hotel  Thorndike,  Boston,  the  evening  of  March 
2,  1892.] 


YOU'LL    not    expect    stuff   like    the   verse   of   John 

Milton, 
From    a    solemn    old    bard    who  was    tutored    at 

Tilton ; 

But  a  meal  is  completer  for  any  good  eater, 
If    it's    settled   with    song,    and    is    rounded    with 

metre. 

Now    you've   had    a  good    supper   as   prelude   and 

proem  ; 
You're    in    first-rate    condition    to    stand    a    poor 

poem. 

After  meat  for  the  -eater  'tis  meet  that  my  metre 
Should  call  the  Muse  down  to  our  table  and  seat 

her. 

My   theme    is    The    Press  —  that    strong    search- 
light inspector, 


The  Press  263 

That  exhibits  all  earth  'neath  its  calcium  re- 
flector. 

It  takes  the  whole  planet  to  scour  and  scan  it, 
And  tell  kings  and  kaisers  the  right  way  to  man  it. 

The  man  who  peers  into  the  mist-girdled  mys- 
tery- 

That  fog-bank  of  fable  we  call  ancient  history, 
Goes  down  in  the  hollow  of  old  graves  to  wallow, 
We  call   him  a  sage,  and  revere  him  a  scholar. 

But  the  press  that  writes  history  that's  contempo- 
raneous, 

Makes  the  deed  and  narration  almost  simultane- 
ous, 

Deserves  as  high  rating,  as  good  compensating ; 

For  the  press  writes  our  history  while  we  are 
waiting. 

It  gives  not  the  lore  of  the  old  ancient  sages, 
But    it  packs   the  whole  world  every  day  in  eight 

pages. 

\Ye  may  hastily  scan  it,  and  praise  it  or  ban  it, 
But  the   newspaper  wrapper  ties  round  the  whole 

planet. 

Its  folds  all  the  islands,  and  continents  are  curled 
in 


264  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

A   small    two-cent  journal   we   wrap   up    the  world 
in. 

'Tis    a    bundle    worth    trying,    a    package    worth 
buying, 

If  a    planet    rolls    out   when    we've    done    our    un- 
tying. 


Lines  265 


LINES 


[Read  at  the  dedication  of  the  Soldiers'  Monument  presented  to 
the  town  of  Candia,  N.H.,  by  Hon.  Frederick  Smyth,  Oct.  13,  1893.] 


THE  broken  nation,  torn  in  twain, 
Cried, 'in  the  torment  of  her  pain, 
"Oh,  bring  me  men  who  dare  to  die,"  — 
And  thousands  answered,  "Here  am  I." 

"  Come,"  cried  the  voice  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Cried  with  the  thunder  trumpet's  breath, 

"Who'll  come  to  be  cut  down  like  grain, 
Upon  the  harvest-fields  of  death  ?  " 

The  voice  came  from  an  ominous  sky, 

And  thousands  answered,  "  Here  am  I !  " 

Then  did  the  nation  see  arise 
The  hero  breed  that  never  dies  ; 

Then  did  the  world  behold  again 

The  strength  of  God  that  lives  in  men. 

No  monument  our  hands  can  raise 
Can  justly  magnify  their  praise  ; 


266  irh(lfs  from   ll'ild  J\L\idows 

There  is  no  praise  can  glorify, 

No  praise  of  tablet,  tongue,  or  pen, 

The  soul  that  does  not  fear  to  die, 
The  man  who  dares  to  die  for  men. 

All  praise  is  but  an  idle  breath 

\Yhen  whispered  in  the  ear  of  death  ; 


All  eulogy  an  empty  sound, 
The  ripple  of  an  idle  wave, 

When  uttered  o'er  the  hallowed  ground 
That  marks  a  soldier's  grave. 

Long  since  their  lives  have  taken  flight, 
Their  souls  passed  on  into  the  night. 


Lines  267 

The  babes  they  left  behind  them  then 
Have  grown  to  matrons  and  to  men  ; 

And  children  play  about  their  knees, 
And  listen  while  the  tale  is  taught 

Of  years  of  mighty  destinies, 

And  how  their  fathers'  fathers  fought. 

And  this,  our  monument,  we  raise, 

Shall  tell  their  tale  to  coming  days, 
And  teach  in  the  dark  hours  of  need, 

Or  when  the  threat'ning  years  draw  nigh, 
Men  of  the  same  strong-hearted  breed 

To  still  be  unafraid  to  die. 
And  while  are  hearts  of  equal  worth, 

That  love  of  land  or  glory  stirs, 
Freedom  shall  dwell  upon  the  earth 

Amid  her  loving  worshippers ; 
And  rule  in  sceptred  peace  afar, 
From  rising  sun  to  evening  star, 
A  land  untrod  by  foot  of  slaves, 
But  white  with  bloom  on  heroes'  graves. 


268  \Vhiffsfrom  Wild  Meadows 


THE  BIG  FOUR  AND   THE  LITTLE  MAN 


[Read    before    the    Brown    University    Club    of    Providence    at 
Annual  Midwinter  Banquet,  1895.] 


THERE  was  a  man  —  a  mighty  man  — 

Who  wrote  a  mighty  grammar, 
To  be  beat  into  children's  heads, 

And  knocked  in  with  a  hammer. 
And  if  you  wish  for  grammar  lore, 

His  book's  the  place  to  seek  it; 
It  tells  us  how  to  speak  our  tongue 

The  way  we  ought  to  speak  it. 
A  learned  book  rilled  up  with  rules, — 

With  rules  of  all  conceptions,  — 
Ten  thousand  rules  from  all  the  schools, 

Ten  million  more  exceptions. 

There  was  a  man  —  a  mighty  man  — 
Who  had  a  mighty  "  projik  " 

To  write  a  great  Compendium 
Of  Universal  Logic. 

He  told  us  how  to  range  our  facts 
In  proper  collocation, 


The  Big  Four  and  the  Little  Man  269 

To  analyze  and  synthesize, 

And  keep  from  obfuscation. 
By  his  advice  the  target  truth, 

By  hot  shot  could  be  shot  full ; 
He  told  us  how  to  think  our  thoughts, 

And  make  our  thinking  thoughtful. 

There  was  a  man  —  a  mighty  man  — 

A  mighty  rhetorician, 
Who  made  a  rhetoric  that  ran 

Into  the  twelfth  edition. 
He  taught  us  not  to  write  like  clowns, 

Or  any  coarse  clodhopper, 
But  how  to  write  with  elegance 

Pre-eminently  proper. 
He  told  us  how  to  write  our  thoughts 

In  true  concatenation, 
And  fix  and  rig  'em  up  in  style, 

By  rule  and  regulation. 

There  was  a  man  —  a  mighty  man  — 

Who  made  a  contribution 
To  wisdom's  great  totality  — 

A  work  on  elocution. 
He  told  us  how  to  throw  our  arms 

To  make  our  words  emphatic, 
And  told  us  how  to  twist  our  mouths, 

To  make  our  speech  dramatic ; 


2 jo  }}' luffs  from   ]]' Hit  Meadows 

He  told  us  how  to  coo  like  doves, 

Or  roar  like  any  bison  ; 
And  told  us  how  to  throw  our  voice 

All  over  the  horizon. 

There  was  a  man  —  a  little  man  — 

A  very  little  fellow, 
Who  used  to  stand  upon  the  stand, 

Just  stand  right  up  and  bellow. 
He  mauled  and  murdered  rhetoric, 

Threw  logic  in  confusion, 
And  broke  all  the  commandments  of 

The  Book  of  Elocution. 
He  filled  the  palpitating  air 

With  universal  clamor, 
With  cracked  debris  of  rhetoric, 

And  ragged  shreds  of  grammar. 

One  day  the  great  grammarian, 

And  the  great  rhetorician, 
And  the  great  elocution  man, 

Likewise  the  great  logician, 
Went  down  to  hear  this  little  man, 

This  very  little  fellow, 
To  see  him  mount  upon  the  stand, 

And  then  to  hear  him  bellow. 
Loud  sneered  the  great  grammarian, 

Pooh-poohed  the  rhetorician, 


77tc  Big  Four  and  t/ic  Little  Man          271 

The  elocution  man  was  shocked, 
And  shocked  the  great  logician. 

Ikit  while  they  sneered,  these  learned  men, 

The  ignorant  congregation 
Showed  its  tumultuous  delight 

In  thunderous  acclamation. 


For,  oh!  this  man  —  this  little  man  — 

This  very  little  fellow, 
Played  on  their  fears  and  hopes  at  will  — 

A  smile-or-tear-compeller. 
For  though  he  was  a  little  man, 

He  was  a  mighty  fellow, 
And  played  upon  men's  heartstrings  as 

Upon  a  violoncello. 


272  Whiffs  from  Wild  Meadows 

The  people  cried  and  clapped  and  wept, 

And  soon  the  rhetorician, 
Grammarian,  elocution  man, 

Likewise  the  great  logician, 
\Yere  laughing  just  like  common  men, 

Or  crying  just  like  women, 
While  through  his  sea  of  eloquence 

The  little  man  was  swimmin'. 
And  loud  haw-hawed  and  loud  boo-hooed 

These  deep  and  learned  fellows  — 
His  hands  were  on  their  heartstrings,  and 
He  played  his  violoncellos ! 

Now  grammar's  good,  and  logic's  good, 

And  rhetoric's  good  and  proper, 
And  elocution's  excellent 

To  train  the  coarse  clodhopper; 
But  this  my  little  fable  shows, 

My  little  fable  teaches, 
The  man  with  genius  in  his  soul 

All  formulas  o'er-reaches. 
He  breaks  the  rules  of  scribes  and  schools, 

As  fast  as  they  can  make  'em, 
And  grammar  men  and  logic  men 

All  go  to  hear  him  break  'em. 


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